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THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Wholly delightful and satisfying.” 

— Brooklyn Eagle . 

The House in the 
Woods 

B r ARTHUR HENRY 

{SECOND EDITION) 

“ A good breezy healthful story — the 
more readers it has the better.’ ’ 

— N. Y. Times. 

“As fine as a great forest, a great 
city or a great man — it is a pleasure to 
recommend it to the reader.’ * 

—N. Y. Press. 

«A jolly, cheerful, restful story of 
the kind that makes a dweller in the 
city long to get into the quiet woods.” 

—N. Y. Sun. 


An Island Cabin 

By ARTHUR HENRY 

{NEW EDITION) 

“A book of individuality and power. 
The author is a homespun Thoreau, 
homespun because he writes without the 
literary pose, and doesn’t leave out the 
very things we like to know.” 

—The World's Work. 

Each , l2mo, cloth . Illustrated . $1*50 

A. S. BARNES CO. 



The 

Unwritten Law 

A NOVEL 

V*- V \ 

By 

ARTHUR HENRY 

Author of (t The House in the Woods '* and 
“ An Island Cabin 99 



NEW YORK 

A. S. BARNES AND COMPANY 

1905 



the library of 

CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 


MAR 16 1905 

J iotyright Entry 

I ws* 




& A* 


Copyright, 1905 
BY 

A. S. BARNES & CO. 


Published March , 1905 



DEDICATION 


To the inquiring Spirit of Youth , seeking knowledge 
that it may remain innocent , to the Spirit of Chivalry, 
deprived of its ancient expression , hut still eager for the 
Grail , and to those mothers who protect their children, 
not from the truth , hut hy it, this hook is dedicated. 


\ 








CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. A Good Man Saves His Ransom 1 

II. A Magnet and a Soul Asleep 10 

III. Apostles and Worldlings 19 

IV. An Awakening 34 

V. A Keeper of the Treasure 43 

VI. A Custodian’s Conscience 58 

VII. A Good Man Adrift 73 

VIII. In Strange Lands 85 

IX. To Get Back His Own 99 

X. Voices of the Square Ill 

XI. Thekla Reforms Coney Island 129 

XII. A Girl and the World 153 

XIII. The Law Seizes a Culprit 166 

XI V. A Nation is Saved 186 

XV. Love and Chivalry 211 

XVI. Redemption from a Balcony 227 

XVII. Babes in the Wood 238 

XVIII. The Quality of Mercy 254 

XIX. Children of Reticence 280 

XX. An Ancient Faith 289 

XXI. A Singular Wooing 304 

XXII. A Madonna of the Streets 319 

XXIII. In Place of Chaperones 330 

XXIV. Mythical Guardians 338 

XXV. Emeline Preserves Herself 346 

XXVI. Refuge 358 

XXVII. The Appeal of Love 371 

XXVIII. A Wooing and a Wedding 388 








THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


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THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

r 

CHAPTER L 

A GOOD MAN SAVES HIS RANSOM. 

V AN BUREN STREET, between Tompkins ave- 
nue and Throop avenue, is, in many respects, a 
representative block of Brooklyn. On one side 
stands a long row of brownstone houses, built exactly 
alike, and on the other side is a row of frame houses, 
varying somewhat in design. They are joined together, 
presenting a solid f ront to the street. There are no vis- 
ible roofs, such as give something of the individual char- 
acter to separate dwellings. There is, in front of each 
house, a plot of exposed ground, nine by ten feet. In 
the rear of each, completely hidden from the street, is a 
backyard fifty feet deep, enclosed by a high board fence. 

You will often find in the houses where men live and 
the soil over which they reign, truer evidences of their 
nature than in their words or in their social or industrial 
conduct. The houses on this particular block bear a 
striking resemblance to the majority of those in Brook- 
lyn. There is throughout the Borough, about the same 
l 


2 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


proportion of stone and wood, and about as many minor 
differences in architecture. And those dwelling here are 
as representative of the great majority of the people. 

There is, however, an important difference between 
this one block and most others of the Borough. You 
must look for it in the soil and its products. All these 
little nine by ten patches of lawn reveal it in the deep, 
rich green of their grass blades and the close texture of 
their sod. Along this entire block, there is not a spot 
of bare ground, not a patch of burnt, grey grass. It is 
all of a vital, thriving green, moist with juice. The 
close-cropped sod is dappled with the little, round leaves 
of the white clover, which sometimes comes to a bloom 
the day before cutting. There are no weeds in this sod. 
Here are over an hundred lawns, miniatures of those 
which great wealth maintains along St. Mark’s and the 
costly avenues of the world. There is no noticeable dif- 
ference as to these grass plots between the two sides of 
the street, but back of the row of stone houses the en- 
closures are ordinary backyards, surrounded by bare 
board fences. 

In the rear of the wooden houses, the yards are green 
and fragrant. The sod is identical with that in front. 
Between the narrow stone walks and the fences is loose, 
well-drained earth, where from crocus time until the last 
dahlia and flaming salvia succumbs to the frost, a mag- 
nificent pageant of flowers moves with the seasons. 

No one in all this neighbourhood could tell you why 
this condition, so minutely described, exists. No one has 
ever asked. People have moved in and out for many 
years. Those who entered the wooden houses fronting 


A GOOD MAN SAVES HIS RANSOM 


S 


Van Buren street and those on Lafayette avenue, saw 
their neighbours every evening at work. They looked 
from their rear windows and beheld the green, closely 
cropped sod, the trim walks, the thriving flower-beds. 
Young girls were gathering roses for the dinner table; 
men who had returned from their offices in New York or 
downtown in Brooklyn were out in their shirt-sleeves and 
overalls, pushing lawn-mowers, clipping with pruning 
shears, removing little docks and dandelions that had 
found root in the soil. The yards they had formerly 
possessed might have known neither flower-beds nor 
grass. Discarded cans and ash-heaps accumulated 
there, perhaps, but they could not look from these back 
windows and see their own premises, alone among all 
these neighbouring gardens, become shabby. People 
who moved into the stone houses on Van Buren street saw 
only the little plots in front and kept their own as good 
as those around them. They did not see the rear gar- 
dens across the way, and their own did not expose them. 

It was because in times past, one of these dwellings 
had sheltered a being whose nature was productive of 
beauty and tenderness, that these gardens bloomed. He 
is gone now. His memory is associated with tragedy 
and disgrace. But, because he once lived in this par- 
ticular block, it is still a beautiful, fragrant place in 
which to live. The people here adorn their tables and 
mantels with flowers from spring until fall. They greet 
each other cheerily across their vine-covered fences. 
They are kindlier, possessing more of that sympathy 
with life which acquaintance with nature brings, than 
they would have been without this unknown influence. 


4 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

And it is because of such natures as his, that the world 
has created its parks and its boulevards. Wealth often 
maintains itself in the midst of beauty to preserve 
appearances or to conform to tradition, but a poor 
man who toils in his garden for the love of it, is 
one of the springs of human virtue that keeps life 
green. 

Midway in the row of frame buildings, stands a two- 
storey house. Scroll work, cheap but elaborate, adorns 
the cornice and the eaves and posts of the porch. The 
body of the house is painted a golden yellow, the scroll 
is red and green. The Thatchers, who have recently 
moved in, abhor this combination of colours, and have de- 
manded that it be repainted. They are right, for now 
that Karl Fischer is gone, these things have lost their 
significance. When he was leaning on the gate, pulling 
stolidly at his great, curved pipe, with the quaint, stoop- 
ing form of Mrs. Fischer on the porch, the scroll work 
and the colours made an appropriate setting. Here were 
two old birds in their proper nest. 

This was the first house built upon the block, and Karl 
Fischer was its first tenant. He was a young man then, 
just over, with the rosy, blue-eyed, round-cheeked little 
Katrina, his wife. He was an engraver. They were 
an industrious, simple-minded pair. When they were 
fifty years old, they could speak very little English, for 
the reason that they scarcely spoke at all. They knew 
no more of German than the quietest of lives required. 
They had added nothing to their vocabulary since they 
had played with their brothers and sisters, and sat with 
the silent, old peasant people at home. They had made 


A GOOD MAN SA VES HIS RANSOM 5 

love without talking much ; they could toil without words 
at all. 

Kindly, affectionate natures find a readier expression 
in silence than in speech. 

For thirty years, Karl Fischer and Katrina occupied 
the little square house on Van Buren street, and worked 
and saved in a tender and contented silence. There were 
no children at first, and while this was a constant, un- 
spoken grief to them, it left them free to continual em- 
ployment and made it possible for them to keep what 
they earned. Katrina washed and baked and scrubbed 
for the people as they settled in the neighbourhood. All 
the surrounding streets were rapidly filled with solid 
rows of buildings, and there was never a moment when 
she need be idle. In all this work, Karl helped her. 
The moment he could drop his tools, he hurried f rom the 
shop, and joined Katrina at the tubs. Together they 
worked in the yard draining, making over the soil, nurs- 
ing the sod and planting flowers, vines and bushes. As 
other houses were built about them, neighbours moving 
in looked from their windows upon the wonderful gar- 
den in Fischer’s back yard. In the spring, when they 
saw him setting out his plants, they began to inquire, 
and to make gardens of their own. They came home 
carrying baskets filled with plants in pots. Some of 
them at first, half ashamed of their projects, had their 
plants delivered and waited until dark to set them out. 
Others, meeting as they came home, bringing their pur- 
chases with them, would exchange greetings and joke at 
their mutual ignorance in such matters. Englehardt, 
the credit man of a large brewery, would perhaps meet 


6 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Townsend, head salesman for a wholesale dry goods 
house, and say : 

“What you got there, Townsend, cabbage plants?” 

“Not much ; they’re salvitus or some such name. Karl 
says they come out great in the fall. What’s yours?” 

“Hanged if I know. I saw ’em in a florist’s window 
as I was coming by, and thought they’d make a show.” 

As time passed, however, and all the yards in the block 
began to flaunt their blooms, the rivalry grew, a real in- 
terest in their premises took possession of these people. 
They w r ould call from their windows to Fischer as he 
worked in his yard, to ask why their sod was not as uni- 
form as his, to tell him of a rose bush that* seemed to be 
ailing, to find out if some fertiliser they had seen adver- 
tised was the right sort to buy. Sometimes, he would 
pay them a visit and inspect the matter personally, say- 
ing only what was necessary to set them right, often 
showing them what to do or doing it for them. To all 
these people he was known as Karl. As the years passed 
and the neighbours came and went, it came to be “Old 
Karl” with them, or “Old Karl Fischer.” When any 
one spoke to him or about him, there was a note of 
warmth and affection in the voice. His new neighbour 
of a day would say “Good evening” as he passed him, 
leaning over his gate, the great bowl of his German pipe 
resting in his huge, coarse hand. His old neighbour of 
a year would say “Good evening, Karl.” To all alike, 
old Fischer would nod and grunt and blink his eyes. 
His features were large and coarsely formed, but a mild, 
warm light was in his blue eyes. His square, heavy 
face, covered by a thick, brown beard, touched with 


A GOOD MAN SA VES HIS RANSOM 7 

grey ; his short, stolid form, heavy and slow, seemed to 
generate and exhale an essence of kindliness and simple 
good-will, almost palpable. For thirty years this silent, 
sympathetic being dominated the moral atmosphere of 
his community. 

After fourteen years of toil and patient economy, for 
the little ones who did not come, a girl was born. They 
named her Emeline. As a baby, she seldom cried and 
never laughed. She looked about her gravely. She ex- 
amined her toys before playing with them. She was a 
quiet, self-contained little mortal and made no disturb- 
ance in the household she had entered. As often as Karl 
looked into her sombre eyes, he felt an oppression in his 
heart. Four years later Thekla was born. As Karl 
entered Katrina’s chamber, he laughed aloud. This 
baby voice made him glad. When he left the room, he 
walked unsteadily, his eyes shining and moist with tears. 

Twenty-five years of hard, incessant toil and constant 
economy brought to Karl and Katrina ten thousand dol- 
lars, deposited, little by little, in the People’s Savings 
Bank, in four books, one for each of the family. Here 
were two simple human beings, atoms in a universe con- 
cerning which they never speculated, members of a vast 
social order altogether beyond their comprehension or 
even consciousness, who had grappled with the condi- 
tions they found, and without grumbling or questioning 
had met the requirements forced upon them and made 
themselves secure. They had lived happily, had pro- 
vided for their children against want and could pass 
through a quiet old age to a peaceful death. They had 
accomplished this, but at what a cost! The graceful 


8 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


little Katrina, plump and rosy, had been twisted into a 
deformed creature, prematurely old. The pretty, slop- 
ing shoulders had become bony and uneven. The back 
was crooked. The full bosom was sunken in, the glow- 
ing cheeks were wrinkled and sallow. The even teeth 
were gone, and the sensitive lips, between which they once 
had gleamed, were drawn like fluted parchment across 
the gums. And yet in spite of these details, which might 
readily compose a hideous form and face, Katrina was 
only a quaint, appealing figure, as she sat on the porch 
knitting, clad in a black and red print gown, full black 
apron with white ruffles, and her small, round head en- 
closed in a black, closely fitting hood. Her countenance, 
in spite of the sallow cheeks and lips, the dim eyes, was 
sweet and winsome. All the wrinkles of her face had 
formed along pleasant lines, and now when she smiled 
they were like so many expressions of a gentle heart. 

Time and toil had not so cruelly transformed Karl. 
His movements were slow and often painful, his shoulders 
were humped. It was becoming more and more difficult 
for him to do a day’s labour in the shop. It was hard 
for him to sit so long upon a stool. His sight would 
often fail him and his hand shake so that he was obliged 
to leave a task unfinished in the middle of the day. He 
could still command for a few hours each day, the firm, 
sure stroke that had made him famous among his crafts- 
men and brought him good wages for over twenty years, 
but he was becoming more and more uncertain every 
year. The sums he was still able to earn and the in- 
terest on their savings supported them comfortably, and 
Katrina no longer scrubbed or washed. 


A GOOD MAN SAVES HIS RANSOM 


9 


Neither Karl nor Katrina grieved at these changes. 
They were unconscious of them. Old Karl, standing 
by the gate in the twilight, smoking, was only her good 
man to Katrina, and the little form on the porch knit- 
ting serenely, accurately, while the night enveloped her, 
was still his own Katrina Frau to Karl. Not once did 
a thought for themselves come to them, nor a memory of 
youth and strength and beauty as things gone from 
them. They had toiled and saved eagerly. They re- 
joiced in their success and were unconscious of the sac- 
rifice. They lived now in their children, laughing with 
them, grieving with them, seeing only the future of to- 
morrow through their eyes. Emeline and Thekla meant 
life to them. For Karl Fischer the world — society — 
was a vague, overshadowing power, that had demanded 
of him ten thousand dollars for the safeguarding of his 
little nest. This sum Katrina and* he had procured. 
The world held it in one of its mysterious vaults and in 
return granted him a peaceful old age and secured his 
Katrina and his children from hunger forever. 

The peaceful haven Karl and Katrina had made ex- 
tended in their vision to encompass the whole future of 
their daughters. Here they would forever cruise in 
calm waters, always young and fair and childlike, for 
they were made safe against the tempests of the seas. 
Age is ever creating these safe havens, from which youth 
is forever seeking to escape. 


CHAPTER II. 


A MAGNET AND A SOUL ASLEEP. 

A T this time Emeline was thirteen and Thekla nine. 

Emeline was tall for her age, angular and awk- 
ward. The children in the neighbourhood 
called her “skinny leg.” Her hair was black and abun- 
dant, her eyes large and dark and sombre. They were 
dull and almost expressionless at most times, but now 
and then, when annoyed by jostling boys on the way to 
school, or in the park at night, they would suddenly 
shine with a glowing lustre. Her nose was straight and 
thin, her lips even and full, her face oval, dark-skinned 
and full of a grave repose. She was the best scholar in 
her class, and the most unpopular. She did nothing to 
merit dislike. She seldom spoke to any one, and neither 
borrowed nor trespassed. The girls disliked her with- 
out assigning any reason, the boys because she was 
touchy. She did not wish their friendship, however, and 
would have escaped from all contact with them had she 
not been the sister of Thekla. This strapping, big- 
boned girl of nine, roughly made in form and feature, 
was a veritable human magnet. Whenever she ap- 
peared, there instantly gathered others. Her mop of 
10 


A MAGNET AND A SOUL ASLEEP 


11 


yellow hair was always in luxuriant disorder. Her 
bright blue eyes sparkled with an irresistible vitality. 
Her fat cheeks were always flaming as with a fever. 
Her broad nose and large mouth were almost grotesque 
in shape and movement, but no one could see them with- 
out the liveliest impulse of delight and affection. The 
whole face was alive and merry, humorous, and yet allur- 
ing, challenging your attention, and holding it. 

She blundered along through school, learning nothing, 
and just managing to get from one grade to another, by 
the good graces of her companions and teachers. She 
liked to go to school as much as Emeline did, but for dif- 
ferent reasons. Emeline loved books. She studied with 
an intense, almost passionate eagerness. She did not 
know why she wished to learn ; she could not have men- 
tioned a definite ambition. It was her nature to strive. 
Definite aims had not yet matured. Thekla thought of 
her class and her school only as a collection of people. 
It would have been a heartbreaking catastrophe to be 
left by her class, because of the breaking of human ties, 
which, for her, formed the woof of life. Had this hap- 
pened, however, she would have soon been content in her 
new relations. Her one grief was, that she must sit 
with the girls, and play with the girls at recess. She 
spent most of her time grinning across the schoolroom 
at the boys. On the way to and from school, she was 
quickly among them, taking with her, by force of her 
personality, the reluctant Emeline and a number of more 
willing, but less direct, maidens. While her classmates 
were shying on one side, and waiting covertly for the 
boys to pass near them, Thekla was following at their 


12 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


heels, or calling them lustily to hers, grateful and happy 
in their uncouth attentions, or even their toleration. 

Emeline possessed a self-sufficient nature. Had she 
been deprived of all companionship, she would not have 
felt the loss. Had she been blind and deaf and dumb, 
a brooding, solitary creature in a lonely universe, she 
would have fulfilled a destiny most satisfactory to her- 
self. She could have been equally content in a world 
where people did not trouble her. She would not need 
to be conscious of occupying a superior state, but neither 
could she tolerate the one she was in, # when the percep- 
tion of a better came to her. Like all those who live in 
themselves, whatever she was conscious of, must serve or 
disturb her. She had been easily weaned. The baby 
Emeline had nursed only for the sake of the food, and 
when this was offered her in a cup she found it as satis- 
factory as her mother. 

It had been almost impossible to wean Thekla. It 
was the breast she wanted more than the milk. When 
nursed she pressed her whole body close to her mother’s ; 
she laughed and cooed, moving her lips over the soft 
breast, kneading it with her little hands. 

As she grew, she would hang to her .mother’s skirts 
and lean against her, interfering with her work. Had it 
not been for Emeline, Katrina Fischer would have found 
the clinging, clamouring Thekla a serious burden during 
many of the years she had toiled for them. Emeline 
seemed willing enough to take care of her sister. 
Thekla never wanted any of her playthings, but found 
her delight in bestowing her own. She wanted some one 
to be near, to throw her arms about, to kiss, to delight 


13 


A MAGNET AND A SOUL ASLEEP 

m, and Emeline tolerated all this very sedately. She 
would even sit in a corner, almost motionless, her back 
against the wall, while Thekla slept, her head pillowed 
in her sister’s lap. 

Emeline had never of her own accord sat upon her 
father’s knee, and her father had very early ceased to 
induce her there. He stood in awe of this reserved 
being. When she was thirteen she already dominated 
the household. She did not actually regulate its affairs, 
because she had no specific desires. Had she been the 
only child, it would have been a sombre household, and 
old Karl would have passed through life with one-half 
his heart untenanted. But Thekla filled it with a joy- 
ous, bounding life. She learned to know the time of his 
homecoming, and as he turned the corner of his block 
she came running and shouting to him. She clasped 
his legs and climbed upon his shoulders, smothering him 
with the rough clasp of her stout arms. She learned to 
fill his pipe for him, and to light it, taking a puff or two. 
She worked in the yard with him, having her own garden 
tools. She learned the name of every plant and bush 
in the garden and the manner of treating each. She 
learned to speak German without knowing it, and the 
two would talk together in a language of their own, half- 
German, half-English. She called him “Mein Fahter.” 

When the children were not at home, or in school, they 
were in Tompkins Avenue Park, an enclosure consisting 
of two solid blocks, surrounded by a low stone wall. 

In the afternoons, it was a quiet place of soft shade 
and pleasant sunlight. The benches were mostly occu- 
pied by a few old gentlemen and ladies from the more 


u 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


aristocratic avenues of the neighbourhood. Hundreds 
of children, boys and girls in short skirts, played on the 
grass. Nurse girls in white caps and aprons, rolled 
baby-carriages along the walks or met in groups to gos- 
sip, while their wards slept. At one side of the park 
was a little Swiss building — a public library. Occa- 
sionally, people passed up or down its stone steps leis- 
urely, carrying books under their arms. 

Here, sitting on a bench under a maple tree one after- 
noon, Emeline, thirteen years old, formulated her first 
definite desire. She had been here many times before. 
All her life, she had been coming. As soon as school 
was out, if she were not needed at home, she instinctively 
turned this way. Going to the library, she would look 
over the books until she found one in which were mag- 
nificent estates and beautiful, noble ladies. This she 
would take to a certain bench that had somehow become 
her favourite. She would read tranquilly, now and then 
looking up f rom the pages at the world about her. Her 
eyes often wandered to the imposing church on the cor- 
ner. It was built of white granite, in which were set 
great arched windows of stained glass. It looked like a 
palace. Across the street from the park in the direc- 
tion she faced, when seated on this particular bench, was 
what to her seemed a row of mansions. 

There was something in the aspect of this broad, quiet 
avenue, the imposing buildings with their picturesque, 
tiled roofs, granite walls and shining plate glass win- 
dows, the broughams and victorias rolling by, the sleek 
horses with the sunlight flashing from metal ornaments, 
the beautifully clothed women who now and then passed 


A MAGNET AND A SOUL ASLEEP 


15 


up and down the broad stone entrance stairs, that re- 
minded her of the scenes and people of the books she had 
read. She had long watched this far-off world as one 
views the gorgeous pageants of an opera. She had 
never thought of these things as having any possible 
connection with her. The people moving here were not 
of flesh and blood, but ethereal beings of an intangible, 
impossible fairyland. 

Her book was resting in her lap. Her eyes, half- 
closed, were fixed upon the sunlit avenue, when her rev- 
erie was suddenly interrupted. 

“Hello, Emeline, what are you reading?” 

She looked up as one of her classmates, a girl about 
her own age, Lou Storrs, took a seat beside her. Eme- 
line was less annoyed by her coming than she would 
have ’been by that of most others. Lou and Amy Storrs 
were the two best dressed girls in school. In fact, 
Emeline had unconsciously made of Amy a fashion 
model. She had learned many ways of tying bows 
and wearing flowers, many pleasing poses of the 
head, *by observing her. She was willing enough to 
have Lou sit beside her, and quietly replied to her 
question : 

“‘Lynwood.’ Have you read it?” 

“Yes,” replied Lou. “I don’t like it. I don’t know 
what the people are making all their fuss about. I like 
‘Little Women’ better than anything and I like ‘Tom 
Sawyer’ next, and after them come ‘David Copperfield’ 
and ‘The Last of the Mohicans.’ I am going to read 
some more of Dickens’ and Cooper’s stories. Papa has 
a lot of them.” 


16 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW, 


Emeline had not read any of these books. She had 
tried “Oliver Twist” once, but that had seemed horrid 
to her and she only began it. She had never heard of 
“Tom Sawyer.” She knew that Cooper wrote stories 
about Indians and she had thought “Little Women” very 
silly as she had glanced through it one day. But there 
was something very fresh and attractive about Lou, and 
the poppies on her new spring hat were very, very soft 
and glossy. Her skirts were always clean and freshly 
laundried, her dresses hung beautifully and in the sum- 
mer-time she seemed to have a clean one every day. So 
now Emeline said nothing, although she felt some scorn 
for Lou’s taste in books. She also remembered with mild 
complacency that there was no better scholar in the class 
than herself. 

“Isn’t it lovely here?” said Lou, looking about her. 
“I wish I could come here nights. Mamma won’t let me. 
She says it isn’t nice here at night.” 

“No,” said Emeline. “It isn’t so nice then. There 
are such crowds of boys.” 

“Thekla says it’s lots of fun.” 

Emeline shrugged her shoulders, swung her skinny 
legs, looked languidly before her and said nothing. 
Lou edged a little closer and leaning toward her with a 
quizzical, merry light in her blue eyes, said : 

“Aren’t boys queer!” 

“They are horrid,” replied Emeline, positively, her 
dark eyes lighting with a sudden flash. 

“You are like Amy,” said Lou, with a perplexed sigh. 

This pleased Emeline. 

“They are horrid,” she repeated. “They are always 


17 


A MAGNET AND A SOUL ASLEEP 

pushing and saying nasty things and trying to kiss you. 
I don’t like boys at all.” 

“But Thekla likes them.” 

Again Emeline shrugged her shoulders and was silent. 

“I know some awful nice boys, too. They do such 
funny things. Don’t you think so?” 

“I don’t like them.” 

“What do you do when they try to kiss you?” 

“I slap their faces.” 

“I did that once to Joe Griff en, but I was so sorry for 
it that when he tried it again I let him. It wasn’t so 
bad, after all.” 

Emeline frowned and. was very much annoyed. 

“You’re just like Amy,” laughed Lou. “Mamma 
says it isn’t nice to slap a boy’s face. She says to leave 
them alone. I don’t see why. They don’t hurt Thekla 
any and she is with them all the time and has more fun 
than anybody.” 

Lou sighed wearily and rose to go. Emeline watched 
her idly as she left the park. Suddenly, her indifferent 
gaze changed to one of amazement. Lou had tripped 
across the avenue and up the stone steps of the finest of 
the mansions, waving her hand toward one of the upper 
windows. As she approached the door, it was swung 
open by a man in uniform. She ran in and the door was 
closed. This, then, was where Lou and Amy lived. Her 
own classmates, girls that she outranked in school, whose 
ideas were no better than hers, girls she talked and dis- 
puted with, lived there. These beautiful women with 
rustling silk gowns and plumed hats were their mothers. 
They rode in carriages. They went to church in the 


18 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


white palace with stained windows. This, then, was no 
shimmering, impossible myth-land, but a real place, a 
part of the world she lived in, for people like herself. 
Why was she not there? She thought of the little, yel- 
low, wooden house and the ordinary street where she 
lived, of the plain, black gown and sallow face of her 
mother, of the ugly hall where she went to church with 
her father and Thekla, and shuddered. It was strange 
that such things as these were hers and that all this 
beauty and glory before ‘her belonged to Lou and Amy. 
A chill passed over her thin body. She got up, drop- 
ping her book unnoticed, and walked home, bewildered, 
resentful, oppressed. 


CHAPTER III. 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS. 

T HESE houses on Lafayette avenue, so alluring to 
Emeline, were not viewed as mansions by those 
who occupied them-. Mr. and Mrs. Henry 
Storrs looked upon theirs as a mere makeshift. 

When Lou entered the house, after leaving Emeline, 
she ran at once to the front room on the second floor, 
Mrs. Storrs’ sitting room. She found her mother and 
sister Amy engaged with the sewing woman. Amy was 
standing before a large folding mirror, with three 
frames partly enclosing her. She was trying on a num- 
ber of* undergarments. 

“Lou,” said Mrs. Storrs, with a note of severity, “we 
have been*waiting for you.” 

“It was so nice out of doors, Mamma, I just couldn’t 
come in.” 

“Come here. Now, look at this skirt. See this mud 
on it. I declare, Lou, you don’t deserve to have nice 
things.” 

“I wish to goodness I didn’t,” said Lou. “The other 
girls don’t wear such things every day. It makes me 
feel like a jay. They think Amy and I are stuck-up.” 

19 


so 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Lou, if you are going to adopt the language of the 
street, I shall send you to a boarding-school.” 

“But, Mamma, why must I wear such things to school 
every day? I don’t like to dress different from the oth- 
ers. They think I’m stuck-up. I mean, they think that 
I think I am better than they are.” 

“Well, my dear, I hope you are better. I want you 
and Amy to be the best girls in the school, and set an 
example for the others. I want you and Amy to be 
looked up to and respected by common children — Listen 
to me, Lou, you are getting old enough to understand 
such things — Be taking off your things to try these on 
— I want ” 

“Mamma,” interrupted Amy, “I wish you would have 
Lou wait until I am through. I don’t think it is nice for 
us to undress before each other.” 

This remark brought a peal of laughter from. Lou. 

“Lou, be still,” said Mrs. Storrs, sharply. Turning 
to Amy, she looked at her a moment, vexed and surprised. 

“What do you mean,” she asked, “by questioning the 
propriety of what your mother does?” 

“Well, I am fifteen now, and it isn’t nice. You say 
yourself that a girl can’t be too modest.” 

“Very well,” said the mother, not altogether pleased 
by this returning of her own wise birds to roost ; “hurry 
and get through, then. You may go downstairs, Lou. 
I will call you presently.” 

Amy made a graceful figure before the mirror, as 
beautiful and lifeless as a plaster cast. She was given 
credit for a great deal of quiet reserve. There are 
thousands of girls in the world who are thought to be 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 


21 


self-contained because they have nothing to pour out. 
Amy was a type of these. She could detect and rebuke 
improprieties, where Lou would not have seen them at 
all, or seeing, would have turned away. There was, as 
Lou had said, some similarity between Amy and Erne- 
line. But there was a greater difference. Emeline had 
not yet experienced much emotion. Amy never would. 
They were alike in finding their interest only in what 
might injure or serve their own personal state. Neither 
of them cared for the boys, because neither as yet per- 
ceived their usefulness. Emeline hated them because 
they annoyed her. Amy was indifferent to them because 
they left her alone. It was because Emeline, undevel- 
oped as she was, possessed a nature capable of hate, that 
the boys picked at her. It was because Amy’s indif- 
ference was fundamental that she was left alone. 
There was nothing in her composition to prick life into 
activity. 

The thing now engaging her attention was the one 
calculated to engross her most. She could gaze upon 
the world with a calm eye when clothed to her satisfac- 
tion. A wrinkle, a crooked seam, a skirt hung awry, 
caused her soul the severest anguish it could know. She 
turned and twisted before the mirror, anxiously looking 
for defects, pinching the shoulders of her corset covers, 
wondering if they were too long-waisted or too short, if 
they were cut low enough in the neck. 

“Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh of despair, as Lou 
left the room, and attention was again exclusively her 
own, “I don’t think this skirt will ever be right.” 

“Amy,” said her mother, not entirely recovered from 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


her displeasure, “you are altogether too fussy. There 
is nothing the matter with that skirt.” 

“But look at these gatherings at the side !” 

“They are perfectly even.” 

“I wish I could have my dresses longer. I am fifteen 
years old and it isn’t modest ” 

“Amy,” exclaimed Mrs. Storrs, fixing a gleaming eye 
upon her daughter, “if you speak to me again like that 
I will have your father whip you. I will tell you what 
is modest and what is not.” 

Amy looked at her mother calmly, even curling her 
lips in slight scorn at the threat of whipping. She took 
off the skirt and handed it to the sewing woman, saying 
coldly : 

“Please fix those gatherings right.” 

Then she dressed herself and went to her own room, 
where she could complete the toilet more at length. 

When Lou stood before her mirror, it revealed a trim, 
strong little figure, cleanly modelled. The whole im- 
pression was one of lightness and activity. Her hair 
was thick, dark brown, and full of life. Her mouth was 
formed of white, even teeth, that seemed to wink at you 
when she smiled, and lips at once tender and merry. 
They were sweet, almost to pathos. Her eyes were of a 
dark, clear blue, full of dreamy shadows when alone and 
thoughtful, gleaming and dancing with light when she 
was inquisitive or merry. 

When called to be fitted, she stood erect and quiet, 
glancing into the mirror just because it was there, and 
permitting the woman and her mother to have their way. 

Lou loved pretty clothes, but so long as the general 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 23 

effect was pleasing, she did not worry over wrinkles and 
gathers one must hunt to find. 

“Lou, 55 said her mother, “who was the girl you were 
talking with in the park? 55 

“Oh, that was Emeline Fischer. 55 

“Is she a nice girl, do you know? 55 

“Of course she is. She is in my class at school. They 
are all nice girls. 55 

A carriage stopped in front of the house, and a mo- 
ment later the front door was opened and closed. 

“There is your father, 55 said Mrs. Storrs. “Run and 
get dressed for dinner. 55 

For the last few days, Mr. Storrs had heen possessed 
by one of the restless, varying tempers that controlled 
him at times. He came Tome later than usual, was in a 
hurry for his dinner, and scarcely ate when it was served. 
At forty-five, his hair was thin and touched with grey. 
There were deep, perpendicular creases between his 
brows that were painful to look at. His eyes were 
watchful, shining, at times, with a consuming fire, at 
times gray and desolate. His cheeks were colourless. 
His large nose and thin lips — things he had inherited — 
gave to his face its character of stability and refinement. 

“Clara, 55 he said, as soon as they were seated at the 
table, “we must stir things up more in the Sunday 
School. Here it is the last of April and there is very 
little increase in the enrollment. 55 

The thirty-first day of May is set apart in Brooklyn 
as Sunday School Day. Every Protestant school adorns 
its children in festival attire and sends them out on pa- 
rade through the principal streets, carrying flags and 


24 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


banners and mottoes. It is a day of singing and speech- 
making and great enthusiasm. There is a prize for the 
school having the most children in line, and for over a 
month before the day there is the most active rivalry 
among the schools in the enrollment of children old 
enough and well enough to walk the necessary distance. 

Mr. Storrs was Superintendent of one of the most im- 
portant of these schools, and his wife was what is known 
as an active helper. They had reached their present 
state in the usual way. Mrs. Storrs, though now the 
social and moral dictator of her community, was at one 
time only Clara, the elder daughter of an Episcopal 
clergyman of New Haven. She had married Henry 
Storrs six months after his graduation from Yale. The 
young man, through the influence of his father, the 
banker of a small town in Connecticut, had immediately 
found a place as paying-teller with the People’s Savings 
Bank of Brooklyn. Clara had been for a number of 
►years active in what was called the best social and re- 
ligious life of the city. She was a beautiful, alert, am- 
bitious girl, who, finding the conventions and ideals of 
her surroundings suitable to her nature, followed them 
in good faith. Since the world at large considered her 
conduct exemplary, and her ambition laudable, she did 
not question them. If, therefore, there is anything to 
criticise in her career, the criticism should not fall on 
her alone, but upon the world at large, that proclaims 
such ambitions laudable. She was a true and prepos- 
sessing daughter of the times, and in the artificial stories 
of the day, skimming suggestively the surface of things, 
she could play a pleasing part. The fact is, however, 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 25 

that it requires a persistent self-deceit to view the ambi- 
tions of the day as laudable and our conduct in their 
pursuit as exemplary. 

On the night of her wedding, Clara, warm with affec- 
tion, and aglow with visions of the future, was unselfish 
enough to think wistfully of her demure little sister, and 
to wish from her heart that some honest youth would 
soon claim her. She told herself that when Henry be- 
came a bank president, she would have him make Susan’s 
husband the cashier. 

During the wedding journey, she was informed of 
Susan’s engagement to William Vandemere, the only son 
of one of the wealthiest and oldest families of New York. 
Clara was dumbfounded. She believed the distress she 
felt at this news was caused by anxiety for Susan. Per- 
haps this Vandemere was a dissipated fellow. She had 
heard rumours of his extravagance at college. Perhaps 
he was cruel, and would make little Susan miserable after 
the first infatuation was over. Her honeymoon was 
spoiled* by her broodings and alarms, and they hurried 
home two months earlier than they had planned. 

Susan’s wedding had been a great social event in New 
Haven, and the demure little bride bore herself credit- 
ably. For a year after this affair, Clara had been 
moody and petulant by turns. 

William Vandemere and his bride occupied the old 
family mansion overlooking Gramercy Park. None of 
the evils Clara had feared came upon Susan. The 
young Mrs. Vandemere became a simple, unostentatious 
great lady. She walked with her husband every pleas- 
ant Sunday morning to the Episcopal Church. She 


26 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

personally oversaw all the household affairs. She gave 
the required number of receptions and attended all that 
she should. On opera nights, and all those occasions 
when it is the duty of wealth to make a show, she was 
notable for her jewels and her gowns. She guided a 
large amount of her husband’s income into benevolent 
channels. She endowed hospitals and asylums, and be- 
came the patron of retreats for unfortunate women and 
friendless girls. She visited these places, driving there 
at regular intervals, dressed in plain, rich clothes, tak- 
ing flowers and a full purse with her. She had not en- 
tered the sporty circle of our best society, but that 
portion of it which is at once exclusive and professedly 
Christian, and it acknowledged the success of this poor 
clergyman’s daughter, yielding to her the place the first 
ladies of the Vandemeres had occupied for generations. 

In fact, Clara herself was the last person to freely 
and ungrudgingly recognise her superiority. In time, 
however, she so far outgrew the pangs of envy as to 
confess them. She told herself that as a Christian, she 
must accept her place in the world, sweetly, and try to 
improve it. She found that her influence over Henry 
was unbounded, and that he possessed enough laudable 
ambition of his own for her to work upon. She man- 
aged to save money and yet to dress exceedingly well. 
She was always looking out for a little better house or 
suite of apartments in a little more fashionable neigh- 
bourhood which would come within their means. She 
went to the best church in whatever neighbourhood they 
lived, and became at once what is known as an active and 
helpful member. She made many friends in all parts of 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 27 

Brooklyn. She found ways of entertaining success- 
fully, making her wit, her taste and originality supply 
what she lacked wealth to procure. Henry, at her urg- 
ing* joined a good club and the Young Men’s Christian 
Association. He became a director in each. In the 
course of a few years there were no more popular people 
in the Borough than these two. On the tide of this social 
progress, Mr. Storrs was naturally borne upward in 
business. He drew hundreds of good customers to the 
bank, and when the cashier absconded, he was given his 
place. This meant more money and prestige to work 
with, and in the accumulative course of things he became 
the bank’s president, occupied a twenty-five-thousand- 
dollar house on Lafayette avenue, was superintendent of 
the Marcy Avenue Congregational Sunday School, a 
director in two building and loan associations, a trustee 
of several very exclusive benevolent societies and a num- 
ber of large estates. 

Mrs. Storrs no longer concerned herself about the 
more desirable residence portions of Brooklyn, and more 
“comfortable” dwellings, as she called them. She did 
not care to move again until they bought a place on 
Fifth avenue. She had never spoken of this detail, and 
would have denied it as a controlling motive in her life. 
It was simply a portion of her laudable ambition, but her 
husband understood it, and strove passionately to satisfy 
it. He worked and schemed for money. He had passed 
from teller to president by twenty years of conscientious 
performance of duty, and the aid of social favour, but if 
he would possess millions in the few years left, he must 
exercise other qualities than honesty, industry and 


28 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


thrift. He became alert in the watch for chances, and 
played them with varying success. The game became 
for him, as to any gambler who is not openly one by 
profession, nerve-racking and terrible. 

Of course, Mrs. Storrs knew nothing of such matters. 
She watched her husband’s face anxiously as the time 
passed too swiftly by. When Mr. Storrs came home 
haggard and drawn about the lips her heart was in sus- 
pense. She did not know the exact cause of his anxiety, 
but she felt that her fate was involved. When the 
hunted look had left his eyes, and he greeted her cheerily, 
she always patted his cheeks and kissed his forehead. 
She might even say : 

“Now, you are like yourself again. You should not 
work so hard, Henry. What does it matter, anyway? 
We have enough to live on, and to do some good with. 
Shall we go to the opera to-night ? It will do you good. 
Susan has invited us to her box.” 

She was, in all things, what the world calls a great 
help to her husband, and so, when he said, “We must 
stir things up more in the Sunday School,” she gave him 
her ready attention. 

“I want,” he continued, “to have more children out 
from our school this year than ever before. It may be 
our last, and I want Brooklyn to remember it.” 

He leaned back suddenly in his chair. His eyes closed. 
His wife was startled. 

“Are you faint?” she asked. “What’s the matter, 
Henry?” 

“I am tired,” he said irritably. A few moments later, 
he was again bending over his plate, poking nervously 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 29 

at the food, and Mrs. Storrs, whose keenest interests had 
been stirred by his suggestion, asked: 

“How could it be the last?” 

“I don’t think,” he replied, looking meaningly into 
her eyes, “that we will be in Brooklyn another year.” 

The colour flamed in her cheeks for a moment, but 
almost immediately she sighed, and said: 

“To leave Brooklyn would mean the breaking of many 
precious ties. It would be sad in many ways, but, of 
course, you know best.” 

“Don’t you think the teachers can do more recruiting 
than they are doing?” he asked. “There are a good 
many children about here we have not reached.” 

“Lou,” said Mrs. Storrs, “who did you say that girl 
was ?” 

“Emeline Fischer. She lives over here on Van Buren 
street.” 

“Who is her father?” 

“Her father is a respectable German, by the name of 
Karl Fischer. She goes to the Lutheran Church, but I 
think that she could be induced ” 

“That will do,” said her mcther coldly. Lou looked 
at her plate, concealing her eyes twinkling with their 
precocious understanding. Her father had been listening 
to this description, taking it in good faith, and by no 
means understanding the rebuke. 

“Karl Fischer is certainly respectable enough,” he 
said, looking at his wife. “He has ten thousand in our 
bank.” 

It was the custom of the Storrs family to assemble 
in the library immediately after dinner for family wor- 


30 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


ship. Monday evening, Mr. Storrs read the Scriptures 
chosen for the ensuing Sunday School lesson, and on the 
following evenings he read the references — making com- 
ments and inviting discussion. 

The subject of the week was “Treasure.” This was 
Tuesday evening, and the first reference directed him to 
Matthew vi, from the nineteenth to the thirty-fourth 
verse inclusive. He lighted the droplight, leaned back 
in his heavy leather rocking-chair, waited until his wife 
and daughters were seated, and then read in a clear, 
quiet voice, rich in the curious clerical quality that comes 
with much reading of the Scripture, these beautiful 
words : 

“Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, 
where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves 
break through and steal.” 

As Mr. Storrs read, the look of anxiety and fear that 
haunted his eyes gave place to one of clear understand- 
ing and lofty spiritual satisfaction. 

Neither of these people was hypocritical. It is true, 
that when Mr. Storrs told his wife that they might not 
be in Brooklyn another year, he believed that, without 
question, he would be either in a mansion on Fifth ave- 
nue, or in the penitentiary. He believed that before the 
week was gone and he was called upon to conduct another 
session of his Sunday School, that he would have the 
money to buy his mansion, or would be a fugitive from 
the police. It was the contemplation of these alterna- 
tives that had nearly dragged the life from his body at 
the dinner-table. 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 31 

But for this little hour, he was not considering either 
the morrow or the yesterday. Like the majority of the 
world, he could find an occasional point of contact be- 
tween his life and his religion, and this still held him to 
his faith. 

When the hour was over, the memories of yesterday 
would return, and he would gaze again in terror upon 
the hovering phantom of to-morrow. 

Now, however, with the Bible in his hands, the familiar 
Scripture on his lips, sitting, as he was, in the seat of the 
expounder, the emotions befitting the role he enacted 
came to him. 

In this atmosphere of devotion and domestic quiet, his 
voice grew sweet and impressive, as he read : 

“Therefore, I say unto you, take no thought for your 
life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet 
for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life 
more than the meat, and the body than raiment? 
******* 

“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither 
do they reap, nor gather into barns ; yet your heavenly 
Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than 
they ? 

******* 

“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His right- 
eousness ; and all these things shall be added unto you.” 

He laid the Bible on his lap when he had finished, and 
looking over his glasses at his family, said: 

“In these verses it is made very clear upon what con- 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


32 

ditions we may enjoy wealth and luxury. It is plain 
that Jesus did not intend that His followers should 
always be poor, that they should always suffer. He evi- 
dently foresaw the time when His church would become 
powerful and His children would possess the earth and 
the fullness thereof. ‘Seek ye first the kingdom of God 
and His righteousness, and all these things shall be 
added unto you.’ All the bounty of the earth, raiment 
richer than Solomon’s, more beautiful than the lilies of 
the field, are here held forth as a reward for those who 
labour in the Lord’s vineyard. Is not that clear and full 
of comfort for you, Clara?” 

“Yes, indeed, dear,” replied his wife, smiling upon 
him sweetly. 

And Mrs. Storrs was as sincere as her husband. She 
was a wife possessing many tender impulses and affec- 
tionate habits, a mother proud of her children, watchful 
of their development, anxious for their welfare. She 
was fair to look upon, well preserved, tactful and win- 
ning in society at all times, and as amiable in her home 
as her desire to be obeyed would permit. She was, in 
reality, an unusually pleasing type of that class which 
conceives itself to be the custodian of the human con- 
science. It is not the fashion, however, to analyse cor- 
rectly the woman of that class. 

On the afternoon following the questioning of Lou, 
she watched f rom her window until she saw Emeline come 
to her accustomed seat. Then she dressed herself care- 
fully, donning a new summer silk, with full skirt of rich, 
light blue, rustling with many rows of white ruffles, a 
new Easter hat, whereon was a blue bird crouching 


APOSTLES AND WORLDLINGS 


33 


among a mass of flowers, and so, with a countenance 
beaming with gentle benevolence, aglow with almost the 
colour and freshness of youth, she left the house and en- 
tered the park. She carried a sunshade of blue silk, 
with a fringe of lace. Ribbons fluttered at her belt, 
from the handle of her sunshade, from her throat and 
shoulders, and little bows tacked here and there to her 
skirt. Emeline beheld this vision of fluttering colours 
approaching, with a heart troubled by new longings. 
This was, undoubtedly, the mamma of Amy and Lou. 
How did they dare to call her Mamma? Was it possible 
for any little girl to ever become such a beautiful woman 
as this? She had certainly seen such women, perhaps 
even Mrs. Storrs herself, many times before. It hap- 
pened, however, that this was her awakening. We see 
for a long time as children before we see consciously and 
with desire. 


CHAPTER IV. 


AN AWAKENING. 

E MELINE was startled when Mrs. Storrs came 
smilingly and took a seat on the bench by her 
side. 

“You are not reading to-day,” said Mrs. Storrs, 
pleasantly. “I think I have always seen you here with 
a book.” 

“I dropped the one I was reading yesterday and went 
away and forgot it. I don’t dare go into the library 
now.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Storrs, “I don’t believe they will say 
very much. Perhaps they have found it. Come with 
me, Emeline, and we will see about it. If I go with you 
they will not scold you.” 

“Are you Mrs. Storrs, the mamma of Lou and Amy?” 
asked Emeline. Her voice was low and hesitating. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Storrs, graciously. “I knew your 
name through Lou, who has often spoken about you. I 
have seen you so often from my window that I wanted 
to know you.” 

They entered the library and Mrs. Storrs explained 
their errand to the young woman in charge. The book 


AN AWAKENING 


35 


had been found and the young woman smiled indulgently. 
Emeline’s reverential awe of this beautiful, richly 
dressed woman was intensified. She had entered the 
library as a culprit, but because these protecting silks 
were shielding her and this voice of wealth and place 
spoke for her, she had met with more consideration than 
all her obedience to the regulations had ever brought her. 
She looked up at Mrs. Storrs almost timidly as they re- 
turned to the bench. Her heart was filled with wonder 
at the mystery of her estate. She longed to be like her. 
Mrs. Storrs, smiling down upon the grave, wistful face, 
felt her heart drawn toward the girl. She was now, in 
all sincerity, a gentle shepherdess who had found a for- 
lorn little lamb. She desired now to make this particu- 
lar creature happy, to do her good, as much as to add 
another figure to her parade. 

“Emeline,” she asked, “what Sunday School do you 
attend?” 

Emeline’s nature was busy in a moment. She wished 
to tell this beautiful being that she went to the church of 
white granite and stained glass windows, and she would 
have done so but for fear of being discovered in the lie. 
Perhaps Mrs. Storrs went there, and knew that she did 
not. 

“Our Sunday School is a long ways off, and I don’t 
go at all sometimes. I don’t like to go there.” 

“Do you think your mamma would care if you come 
to ours ? I have a class of girls about your age at the 
Congregational Church on the corner there. I would 
like so much to have you join it.” 

“Could I?” asked Emeline, opening her eyes wide. 


36 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“If your mamma is willing, I wish you would.” 

Emeline was surprised that any one should speak of 
her mother in such a way. The queer old lady who 
waited on her at home had nothing to do with it. 

“Am I good enough to go there? Would they let 
me in?” 

This appeal almost brought tears to Mrs. Storrs’ eyes. 

“My dear child,” she said tenderly, “any one who 
wants to be good can come to the house of our Saviour. 
Just ask for Mrs. Storrs when you come and it will be 
all right.” 

Emeline was already wondering what she would wear. 
Her best dress would look very ugly beside the gowns of 
Lou and Amy. Perhaps Mrs. Storrs would not want 
her to come if she knew. It required a great deal of 
courage for her to mention it, and when she spoke, it 
was with a gloomy frown, and a voice dogged and 
strained. 

“I haven’t anything pretty to wear.” 

This was certainly something to consider. With all 
her active recruiting, Mrs. Storrs had been careful in 
her selections. She wanted only such girls as would be 
a credit to the school. She felt that she owed it to 
the parents of the girls in her class, to bring into their 
circle only good, well-mannered, nice-appearing little 
girls. Surely, if Mr. Fischer had ten thousand in the 
bank, he could afford a pretty Sunday dress for his 
daughter. 

“Don’t you think your papa and mamma would get 
you something nice to wear? It needn’t be expensive, 
you know. A white muslin, if it is made properly, a few 


AN AWAKENING 


37 


ribbons, and a pretty straw hat trimmed with poppies, 
would look lovely on you. Your dresses fit you very 
nicely, Emeline. Does your mamma make them?” 

“Yes,” said Emeline, pleased by this approval, and 
yet a little uneasy for fear it was not sincere. She knew 
that Lou’s and Amy’s were different, and she felt some- 
how that Mrs. Storrs thought so too. 

“Perhaps your father would buy you a Sunday dress 
already made, if you haven’t a good dressmaker. Have 
you ever been to Loeser’s?” 

“Yes ; papa took me there last winter for a jacket.” 

“Well, you see if he won’t get you a pretty dress and 
hat. I think he will ; and will you come next Sunday ?” 

“Oh, I hope I can,” said Emeline. 

Mrs. Storrs left her with a kindly smile. Her heart 
was warm with satisfaction. She was glad to start this 
young soul on the path of aspiration. She believed that 
a girl with a desire to look pretty could be more easily 
reached than a sloven by nature. One of her favourite 
sayings was: “The surest way to a girl’s heart is a 
pretty ribbon.” She told herself that all these things 
could be used for the Master. She would take an in- 
terest in Emeline. She would encourage her ambition, 
and through it lead her into a life of activity and use- 
fulness. Perhaps she would get her a place with a 
dressmaker or a milliner. 

Emeline’s face was strangely hot as she hurried home. 
Her blood was not often stirred by her emotions. 

She found her father and Thekla in the backyard 
putting new strings and wires along the fences for the 
vines. They had been planting geraniums, petunias, 


38 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


and mignonette along the borders, and Thekla had cov- 
ered her face and hands with mud. 

“Come and kiss me, Emmer,” she shouted, holding 
out the palms of her hands and thrusting her spattered 
cheek forward. “Ain’t I a peach?” 

Emeline ignored her, and going straight to her father, 
said with an air of repressed excitement : 

“Mrs. Storrs has asked me to come to her Sunday 
School, and I want a white muslin dress, and a straw hat 
with poppies, and gloves and new shoes and stockings.” 

“Jimminy crickets!” exclaimed Thekla, “did she ask 
you?” 

“She did,” said Emeline, proudly. “She came out of 
her house and talked to me, and asked me.” 

“Vat iss it?” said Karl, turning slowly to look at his 
daughter. 

“I am going to the Congregational Sunday School, 
and must have some new clothes to wear. I want you to 
take me to Loeser’s to-morrow and get them.” 

“You go no more py de Luterans mit me and Tekla, 
yet?” asked Karl, slowly, looking with troubled eyes 
upon Emeline. 

“No,” said Emeline, “I’m not.” 

Karl stood a moment uncertain what to say, and then, 
looking toward the house, called : 

“Gadreena, Gadreena, cornin’ see oudt!” He looked 
at Emeline and shook his head. “Mein Himmel, Emmie,” 
he muttered, “Ich been so sorrowful mit you.” 

When Mrs. Fischer came out, stooping over her cane, 
and heard the news, she wagged her head and looked at 
Karl in helpless astonishment. 


AN AWAKENING 39 

“Me,” she said, looking timidly at Emeline, “I make 
dose dress, no?” 

“No,” said Emeline, frowing; “I want one at 
Loeser’s.” 

In the morning Emeline did not go to school, but 
to Loeser’s with her father, on his way to work. He 
left her to select her things, arranging to call and pay 
for them in the afternoon. 

For the next few days Emeline’s thin legs moved with- 
out the knowledge of their owner. She was in an exalted 
trance. At home she sat quietly in a corner; at school 
she was not so engrossed in her lessons, managing to get 
through them creditably only because her mind, by force 
of habit, performed its duty perfunctorily. All the time 
her eyes were fixed upon her books, her mental vision was 
fixed upon herself in the white muslin, the hat trimmed 
with poppies, the white gloves, the new shoes and stock- 
ings, walking sedately alone along Lafayette avenue, 
past the rows of mansions toward the white granite 
church with stained windows, carrying a little Bible in 
her hands, as she had seen ladies do. 

During the week her father had left the shop for 
good. He did not need to work any longer, and his 
employer had told him goodnatu redly that he wanted 
the place for a younger man. Karl was sorry to give 
up his bench. He felt a little lost at first. It would be 
difficult for a while to settle down by Katrina for the 
last quiet drifting. After the first idle day, as he sat 
with her on the porch in the twilight, his heart suddenly 
swelled within him and his eyes grew moist. He could not 
have told the reason. 


40 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Emeline was not even aware of this change. If 
Thekla spoke of it, she did not heed it. When Sunday 
morning came she sent Thekla out of their room that she 
might be all alone with her dressing. When she came 
out an hour later her eyes glowed softly, her dark 
cheeks were touched with colour. 

Karl was standing by the gate waiting for Thekla, 
who did not want to go until she had seen Emeline. 

“Oh,” said Thekla, “how beautiful! You do look 
swell. Sehen Sie, mein Fahter, is she Cinterella nicht?” 

Beside Emeline, in her dainty plumage of ruffled white 
and crimson, Thekla seemed like a very ordinary, plump 
robin, in her home-made brown skirt and old-fashioned 
overskirt, brown cotton stockings, strong, well-worn 
shoes, freshly blacked, and wide-brimmed hat, with plain 
brown velvet bows. And yet one would have thought by 
the pleasure and pride dancing in her blue eyes, the red, 
full lips parted with delight, the exuberant happiness 
beaming from her plump, red face, that she was the one 
selected by fortune for its gifts and favours. She took 
her father’s hand and started for the Lutheran hall, 
looking back more than once to admire Emeline in the 
doorway. 

When the time came Emeline really took the walk of 
her dreams. She passed along slowly out of her own 
street, one block on Tompkins avenue, along Lafayette 
avenue, to the church steps, her Bible in her gloved 
hands, her eyes fixed solemnly upon the walk before her. 
She felt her heart beat as she went up the church steps. 
There were others close about her, dressed, as she could 
see from out the corners of her downcast eyes, in sum- 


AN AWAKENING 


41 


mer silks and fine muslins. There was a buzz of voices 
and several times she heard the name of Storrs, but she 
was too confused and her heart beat too wildly for her to 
heed what was said. When she reached the doorway 
she lifted her eyes and looked in. She did not see the 
details of the place, but to her soul came an impression 
of warm, rich colours and luxurious perfumes. There 
was gold and crimson and blue, a great, dim chamber, 
with such an arching, carved roof as must cover Heaven. 
The light was a soft blending of many hues. She looked 
about her among the people, hoping to see Mrs. Storrs. 
After a time, as she saw everybody was going in and 
paying no attention to her, she ventured to ask a woman 
near the door where Mrs. Storrs could be. 

The woman glanced at her strangely, with almost a 
look of suspicion in her cold eyes, and said, shortly : 

“Mrs. Storrs is not here. She will not come to-day.” 

Emeline backed quietly out on to the steps, and, turn- 
ing about, hurried away. When she had gone a short 
distance she stopped and, turning, gazed darkly at the 
church. She had been frightened and humiliated at 
first. Now, for a moment, she was angry. She looked 
toward the house where Mrs. Storrs lived and saw that 
the blinds were tightly closed, that people who passed col- 
lected in small groups, looking curiously. The place 
seemed deserted and terrible. She felt that something 
strange and unpleasant had happened there. She went 
to her bench in the park and watched, until, worried and 
oppressed by the mystery of her lot, she went wearily 
home. 

“What was it like?” asked Thekla, eagerly. 


42 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Don’t talk to me,” replied Emeline, with an impa- 
tient shrug of her shoulders, turning her back. 

Lou and Amy did not appear again at school. Eme- 
line heard some of the boys say the Storrs had gone up. 
What this meant, she did not know. She discovered 
eventually that they had moved away, for she saw them 
no more, and the shutters were not opened until another 
family had moved in. 


CHAPTER V. 


r A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE . 

A YEAR previous to his downfall Mr. Storrs would 
have listened with indignation to the details of 
his own case. There had been an astonishing 
number of Brooklyn defaulters during his career, and 
most of them were men owing their places of trust to 
their reputation as godly men. Mr. Storrs had courted 
their friendship before their exposure, and damned them 
afterwards. 

Any attempt to understand these tragedies or to trace 
their source to the attitude and nature of society at 
large he looked upon as an unholy palliation of the of- 
fence. He was, in fact, like the vast majority of people, 
in that he required the services of the police to detect 
for him the morality or immorality of his acquaintances. 

Very little of Mr. Storrs’ money had been made in 
the exercise of those qualities he would require in the 
Heaven of which he taught. He had, however, kept 
safely within the law. More than this, he had followed 
reputable customs. For over a year he had been engaged 
in a struggle to gain control of the output of petroleum. 
He was not publicly identified with his oil company, only 
because it was well understood that a president of a 

43 


44 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


savings bank should not publish his private ventures 
broadcast. Of course, this was some twenty years ago, 
when modern finance was in its crude beginnings. 

Unfortunately for Mr. Storrs, there were other com- 
panies at work to the same end, and he had not joined 
the right one. At the end of the year he had every 
dollar he owned, and all he could borrow, invested in the 
game. Still the producers spread. It now began to 
appear that vast, unsuspected areas would yield oil. The 
anxious fortune-seekers looked with drawn faces at the 
swiftly spreading circle. Every gallon as it gushed 
from the ground meant a loss to them. If this thing 
continued they would have to stop, and to stop before 
their rivals were exhausted would mean ruin. They 
would fall into the hopper they had built for others. 
Who were these rival companies? Who were the un- 
known capitalists behind them? Were their resources 
greater than their own ? Surely, there was a limit to the 
earth’s production of this fluid. If this limit had been 
reached in time, had it not been for the bounty of nature 
in providing its blessings to men, Mr. Storrs might have 
stood for an honest man to the end of his days, pre- 
siding in strict commercial rectitude over the People’s 
Savings Bank, and his private enterprises, and conduct- 
ing the destiny of the Marcy Avenue Church and Sun- 
day School, to the glory of all those belonging to it, 
which, in their belief, was the glory of God. 

When Mr. Storrs had reached the end of his own 
resources, and either a speedy victory or absolute pov- 
erty for himself must follow, he accidentally discovered 
that Harry King, the cashier of his bank, was short 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 


45 


about two thousand dollars in his accounts. He hoped 
that a mistake had been made and would be corrected. 
A later examination revealed an increase in the shortage 
of two hundred dollars. He shut his lips firmly together 
and promised himself that the cashier would be arrested 
in the morning. The next day when he arrived at the 
bank he found waiting for him Mr. Saunders, president 
of his oil company. He was closeted with this man for 
two hours, and when the conference was over he still 
denied himself to all comers and sat in his private room 
with the door locked. 

The oil company must have two hundred thousand 
dollars in cash that or the day following. There were 
three ways left for the eight men to raise it. They 
could each contribute twenty-five thousand from remain- 
ing resources ; they could issue more bonds and sell them 
to the People’s Savings Bank, where alone it would be 
possible to dispose of them readily, or Mr. Saunders 
could sell to the bank certain worthless securities he held, 
and use the money so secured for the benefit of them all. 
These three propositions Mr. Storrs was left to consider. 
He could not raise another twenty-five thousand dollars 
unless he took the bank’s securities. He dared not buy 
the bonds of the company with bank money, because if 
disaster followed, his act would surely become known. 
If the bank bought these worthless securities, through 
a dealer, he might plead ignorance of their worthless- 
ness, and so, while his judgment could be assailed, he 
might escape with his honour. He could slip a few bonds 
from the packages locked in the bank’s vault, putting 
dummies in their place, sell them, and so provide his 


46 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

share. If he did this, however, he would be called to an 
account for them if a discovery were made before the 
true bonds were replaced. He, alone, was supposed to 
have access to them. And yet, could it be proved? The 
cashier had often been allowed to handle them. 

A gleam of light shone fitfully among the ashes. His 
hands shook for a moment until he gripped them about 
the arms of his chair. 

When Mr. Saunders called in the afternoon he was in- 
formed that on the following morning his securities 
would be bought. From that time Mr. Storrs seemed to 
have forgotten the shortage in the cashier’s accounts. 
He treated Harry with even greater kindness than for- 
merly, throwing more of his own work upon him, allow- 
ing him the greatest freedom. 

“I will wait,” he said to himself, “and see what 
love and confidence will do for him. If he repents 
I will save him. He can in time repay what he has 
taken.” 

And Mr. Storrs having once said this to himself, 
would have followed such a course if his oil company 
had not failed. 

Two weeks later more money was required. There 
was still a chance to succeed, in the inflamed minds of 
these struggling men. It began to look as though their 
rivals were beaten. Many small companies had already 
succumbed. Only a little more money, perhaps twenty 
thousand apiece, and the game would be won. Mr. 
Storrs did not hesitate when the demand came. He had 
sub-consciously decided what he would do long before. 
He must raise twenty thousand more or lose every dol- 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 


47 


lar he owned and render his bank insolvent, for the price 
he had paid for Mr. Saunders’ securities was greater 
than the bank’s surplus. He took a bond here and there 
from different packages in the vault and put dummies 
in their places. He told himself that he would but bor- 
row these for a few weeks. He told his conscience this 
as glibly as though he had not scorned such things in 
all other defaulters. What can be expected from one 
who sees dishonesty in the illegal taking of bank se- 
curities, but who hopes for honour in profits gained by 
legally forcing others to the wall? 

After Mr. Storrs had taken the bonds, there were 
moments when what he believed to be remorse seized him. 
In reality, he was at these times simply the victim of 
terror. If a crash in his affairs should come now, guilt 
could be fastened on him by these. All else that he had 
done would bring him no disgrace. His sudden and 
total failure, his fall from fortune to penury, would 
arouse nothing worse than astonishment in that world 
he had voluntarily constituted his judge. He might 
even expect some sympathy. No one could prove that he 
knew the worthlessness of the securities he had pur- 
chased with the bank’s money. But if these dummy 
bonds should fall into the hands of the law, a crime 
would be established beyond the chance of an argument. 
While they were in the vault, and no man but himself 
knew of them, he could find excuses for them. But now 
and then the bleared eyes of his soul, peering through 
this maze of subterfuge, saw them held aloft by the arm 
of the law, for all men to see, and they became for him 
terrible and relentless accusers. At these moments the 


48 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


thought of the cashier would come to him as a breath of 
wind to one who is smothering. 

It was Wednesday afternoon, the day after the read- 
ing from the sixth chapter of Matthew, that Mr. Saun- 
ders called upon Mr. Storrs for more money. 

“Storrs,” he said, when they were alone, “it’s about 
up with us. If we can’t get a hundred thousand more 
we might as well close the shop to-day.” 

Strange to say, this statement disturbed Mr. Storrs 
less than the glowing assurances of success that had 
hitherto accompanied the demands of Saunders. He 
looked quietly at his caller, even smiling a little, and 
asked : 

“And if we could raise this amount, what then?” 

“I give it up,” replied the other, gloomily. “I doubt 
if it would pull us through. Two more counties have 
been tapped by big producers. One of ’em spits five 
hundred a day; d — n it! The other fellows are al- 
ready in there, and in the county beyond, buying leases 
right and left. Their pipe line must connect with the 
mint. I wish I knew who was backing them.” 

The smile had left Mr. Storrs’ face. He looked at 
Saunders without seeing him, scarcely hearing him. It 
seemed to him that he was listening to an old statement, 
one he knew by heart. The end had come. He knew 
now that he had expected it for months. He was amazed 
at the absurd hopes that had been leading him on. He 
would have been amazed at their fulfillment. 

“Well,” he said, sharply, turning toward his desk, 
“what will we get out of the smash-up?” 

“Get!” exclaimed Saunders, “we’ll get h — 11. We’ll 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 


49 


lose most of our wells, for we can’t work them, and we’ll 
forfeit them if we don’t. Oil property, at the present mo- 
ment, is about as costly a luxury as a man can find. It 
will be appraised at about half the amount of our debts. 
We might hold on for a day or two on the chance that 
the other fellows will offer to buy us out.” 

“Can’t you offer to sell?” 

“That is the way it’ll wind up,” said the other. “Of 
course, they’ll laugh at our offer, send the price of re- 
fined still lower, and we will assign.” 

“Then we get nothing?” 

“I’ve told you what we get.” 

“If that is all you have to say, Mr. Saunders, I hope 
you will excuse me. My affairs will require attention.” 

“And this is the end,” said the other, bitterly. “My 
God, Storrs, I’m ruined.” 

“Mr. Saunders, will you be so good as to leave me? 
You seem to forget that you are complaining to one who 
has entrusted his whole fortune to your management 
and lost it. Good-day, sir.” 

When Mr. Storrs was alone he opened the top drawer 
of his desk, and taking out the revolver that was always 
kept there for an emergency, laid it to one side. He took 
all the letters and documents from the drawer, and run- 
ning through them, destroyed those that he would not 
care to have made public. The others he replaced in the 
drawer and picked up the revolver to drop it among 
them. As the glint of the nickel caught his eye, he 
paused a moment, looking steadily at the weapon. Then 
he let it fall upon the papers and slowly closed the 
drawer. He stood up before his desk, his hands in his 


50 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


pockets, looking at nothing. His lips moved slightly 
as he mumbled the word “ruined.” His secretary 
brought him his letters to sign. He took them mechan- 
ically, read them over without heeding them and signed 
them without sitting down. “I am a pauper,” he told 
himself, almost speaking the words aloud. He looked 
about him quickly, fearing he had done so and that 
some one had heard. This brought him to an acute 
perception of the state of things and his accountability 
to others. The bank he knew to be insolvent. He might, 
if given time, replace those borrowed bonds. “Stolen,” 
corrected a voice within him. “I didn’t,” he answered 
sharply, turning his head and glaring fiercely as at an 
accuser by his side. “You stole them, all right,” said 
the voice. “Not if I can replace them.” “How about 
those securities of Saunders?” 

An expression of reserve crept into his eyes. His lips 
became compressed. He would not commit himself. 

“They are worthless,” said the voice. “Saunders 
said they were gilt-edged.” “You knew well enough 
they were not.” “How do you know that? Nobody 
can say that. You can’t prove it.” “They are worth- 
less.” 

A sudden terror seized him. It was only a question of 
time when the bank must sink under this load. If things 
ran smoothly for a year he could manage in some way to 
replace the bonds. After that his personal danger would 
be small. A year of fear and struggle would save him 
from the penitentiary. What was the use of it? His 
money was gone every cent of it. He was a hundred 
thousand in debt. Wliy should he struggle and worry 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 


51 


any longer? He opened the drawer with a jerk and 
snatched up the revolver. He held it in a shaking hand, 
his eyes dilating in horror. 

“I’d better unload it.” 

He took out the cartridges, opened the window, threw 
them in the alley and dropped the weapon into his 
pocket, because of a lurking suspicion that he might 
want it yet. If his connection with the Keystone Oil 
Company were discovered when its failure startled the 
world in the morning, it might precipitate a run on the 
bank and bring everything to an end with him at once. 
As he considered this, he knew that it would be so. The 
whole truth would be known or suspected within twenty- 
four hours. What was he standing there for? He had 
better get out. He put on his hat and left his private 
office in the rear, walking through the bank to the front 
door. Everything about him looked changed. It seemed 
to have become small and shabby. These old counters 
and desks which a few days ago seemed rich and im- 
posing, would count for very little among the assets. 
Those clerks bending over their books were like au- 
tomatons not yet run down. There would be consterna- 
tion here on the morrow and an empty room a few days 
later. His thoughts sickened him. Why should he wait 
about, knowing what was coming, doing nothing? Men 
had escaped. As he passed the cashier, quickening his 
step toward the door, he thought again : 

“They will suspect him, too. They will discover his 
defalcation and suspect him of the bonds.” 

He left the bank, walked around the corner, stepped 
into the alley, and, making sure that no one saw him, 


52 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


picked up three of the cartridges and loaded the re- 
volver. Then he called a cab and drove home. 

Mrs. Storrs had just returned from her talk with 
Emeline, and was still meditating on the good she would 
like to do, when the cab stopped before the house. 

She looked from her window and was surprised to see 
Mr. Storrs alight. She went to meet him, saying as he 
entered : 

“You did not wait for the carriage?” 

“No, I may have to leave town on an early train. I 
want to speak with you — come in here.” 

He led the way into his own room and locked the 
door. Hearing the click, Mrs. Storrs said quickly : 

“What’s the matter, Henry? What has happened?” 

Mr. Storrs leaned against the door and looked at her, 
unable to speak. “For Heaven’s sake, tell me,” she said. 
She stepped impatiently to him and took his arm. “Come 
away from the door and let me out. Come and sit down. 
I’ll send for a doctor. What has happened?” 

She was frightened by his ghastly face and his almost 
contorted manner of standing against the door. 

“Clara,” he said, hoarsely, “I have lost everything. 
Every dollar is gone.” 

Mrs. Storrs dropped his arm and moved away from 
him, contracting her brows, looking at him in astonish- 
ment. 

“What are you talking about?” she said, sharply. 

“It’s true, Clara,” he said, brokenly, straightening up 
and going slowly, unsteadily to a chair. “We haven’t a 
cent in the world and the bank is insolvent. It will prob- 
ably be wiped out by a run to-morrow.” 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 


53 


He dropped listlessly into the chair and covered his 
face. She seated herself a little way from him. Her 
look of astonishment was rapidly changing to indigna- 
tion. 

“What else?” she said, sarcastically. 

“There is something else,” he replied, looking at her 
intently, eagerly, and speaking as one anxious to be 
relieved of a mental load. 

“Some of the bonds have been taken, and although the 
cashier is short in his accounts and might easily have 
stolen them, too, I will probably be accused. They may 
send me to the penitentiary. What shall I do?” 

He fumbled in his pocket and took out the revolver, 
holding it for her to see. 

“Give me that revolver,” said Mrs. Storrs, coldly, 
reaching out her arm. He handed it to her with a look 
of relief. 

“And you have done this thing?” she said, scornfully, 
flashing a glance of hate into his eyes. “You have made 
a pauper of me and brought disgrace to me and my 
children ?” 

A sudden spasm of rage, such as had never before 
found expression in Mr. Storrs’ face, contorted his 
features. 

“Take care,” he snarled; “it’s easy for you to talk. 
You wanted a fortune, didn’t you? Well, it isn’t made at 
receptions or in Sunday Schools. I have asked you what 
I shall do. Don’t you care? We have no time to lose if 
I am to get out.” 

She was walking the floor before he had finished. 

“Why do you come to me now,” she cried, “when the 


54 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

thing is done? You never told me there was any risk 
like this.” 

“You did not wish me to. You would have despised 
me then as you do now. You expected me to succeed, 
and you did not care how. I have failed, and I can’t help 
it.” 

“What is there to be done? How do I know what to 
say? Is there no possible way to save us?” 

Both of these people had used the verb to save so 
often that it is singular the mere sound of the words 
did not now recall to them the gospel they pro- 
fessed in their tranquillity. But neither of these two 
thought for a moment of saving anything now but 
their fortune and their reputation. It would have 
seemed trivial to speak of God or the soul in such an 
emergency. 

“It would require twenty thousand dollars to secure 
me f rom a criminal charge. Two hundred thousand more 
would save the bank.” 

She dropped into a chair and began to sob. Mr. 
Storrs moved uneasily, looking from her to the floor, 
gripping his fingers together and separating them. He 
had been all this time with his hat on. He took it off 
now, leaned his head on the back of his chair, closed his 
eyes wearily and waited. Half an hour passed in silence 
between them. Mrs. Storrs sat down to weep or arose 
to pace the floor. Finally she said: 

“Come with me. We will go to my sister’s.” 

“What for?” he asked, sitting up. 

“For help, of course. Perhaps they will help us.” 

“Vandemere? Do you think he would?” 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 55 

“I will ask them. It will be the first of my humilia- 
tions.” 

The light that had glowed in his eyes for a moment 
left them. What did it matter? Vandemere might save 
him from a cell; he might even preserve the bank and 
give him a chance to recuperate. He would have to begin 
in the morning with nothing but his salary, with a debt 
on his hands of nearly three hundred thousand. He 
could not save this amount. He must venture and scheme 
and fight for it. If he succeeded in the end, it might be 
only to die out of debt. It would take ten, perhaps 
twenty years just to do that. He had no heart for it. 

“Come on,” said Mrs. Storrs from the doorway. She 
still wore the beautiful dress that had dazzled Emeline. 
The coachman had just driven up before going to the 
bank for Mr. Storrs, and she had told him to wait. Mr. 
Storrs, with a gesture of resignation, followed her out 
of the house. They drove rapidly to the Twenty-third 
Street Ferry, and within an hour stopped before the 
house in Gramercy Square. 

Mr. Vandemere had not come home, and Mr. Storrs 
went into the library to wait for him. Mrs. Storrs went 
at once to her sister’s drawing-room. All during the 
ride over, the enormity of this disaster had been growing, 
until now her mind could not contain it. She strove to 
deny its reality. Surely it would be possible to escape 
in some manner from this terrible thing. How could she 
induce her sister to aid her? It was not possible that 
she must live in the world, hereafter a poor woman, de- 
pendent on charity for her food, the wife of a convict. 
There was something sinister to her in the presence of 


56 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


the listless, played-out man by her side. She would have 
slipped from the carriage and fled from him could she 
have utterly wiped him from her life and regained her 
former state, undisturbed by so doing. 

“Why, how do you do, Clara?” said Mrs. Vandemere, 
indifferently, rising from the lounge on which she had 
been reading, and offering her plump, nerveless hand. 
“Have you been shopping?” Her round, expressionless 
blue eyes dwelt for a moment on her sister’s face, and she 
added: “You look tired. Will you have some tea?” 

“Yes,” cried Mrs. Storrs, giving way to the pent-up 
grief and passion of her soul, “if you will put strych- 
nine in it. Oh, Susan, I am desperate. Something ter- 
rible has happened. Henry is downstairs” — she almost 
shrieked the words. “He has ruined me and disgraced 
me. He has lost everything.” 

Mrs. Vandemere backed away from her a few steps 
and looked at her with dilating eyes. She was exceed- 
ingly annoyed. What did Clara mean by breaking in 
upon her in this fashion and screaming such things to 
her? 

“Susan,” she continued, her voice falling suddenly to a 
lower tone and breaking with emotion, “I don’t know 
what it all means, but if you and William don’t help us, 
Henry will be sent to jail and I will kill myself.” 

“Mercy!” said Mrs. Vandemere, mildly, expressing, 
however, all the agitation her diluted, phlegmatic nature 
was capable of. 

Mrs. Storrs dropped upon the lounge, moaning: 

“You know how I have worked and schemed for his 
success. I have slaved for his Sunday School. It was 


A KEEPER OF THE TREASURE 


57 


I who brought us from obscurity to the place we occu- 
pied. He would have been a common bank-teller all his 
life but for me. And this is what I get for it. If you 
don’t help me, Susan” — she sat up and looked tragically 
at her sister — “I will kill myself. I won’t live and be dis- 
graced.” 

“Why, Clara, of course, we will do anything we can. 
You know we will. I will speak to my husband the mo- 
ment he comes home. Don’t talk so — so strangely, 
Clara. You distress me.” 


CHAPTER VI. 


A CUSTODIAN’S CONSCIENCE. 

M R. VANDEMERE was between forty-five and 
fifty years old, a little above medium height. 
His figure was well rounded, just beginning, 
in fact, to show a tendency toward portliness. He was 
strong and vigorous of body, handsome, cleanly built. 
His smooth-shaven face was of the aristocratic American 
type. He was a splendid specimen of the men who have 
inherited great fortunes and increased them; who, with 
those who have arisen from obscure poverty to places 
of vast wealth and power of their own building, have 
already founded a distinct class in the world. There is 
no remarkable difference between the two sub-divisions 
of this class, those who began with a legacy and those 
who began with nothing. They are all but a generation 
or two removed from the soil. Mr. Vandemere’s grand- 
father had carted his own merchandise through the 
Streets of New York when a young trader, and at the 
age of seventy, when his possessions included a good 
portion of the city, he did not hesitate to lend a hand at 
the unloading of his vessels in rebuke to the lazy dock 
labourers. The pursuit of wealth here is keen, absorb- 
ing and still democratic in its customs. America is pe- 
58 


A CUSTODIAN'S CONSCIENCE 


59 


culiar in that so many of its heirs to wealth have taken 
up the battle where their fathers left it, waging it with 
the same restless, strong-armed, relentless force. 

Mr. Storrs, had he succeeded in entering this class, 
would have graced it from a social standpoint. It is 
doubtful if he could have held his place in their com- 
plicated, far-reaching contentions, had fortune once 
thrown him there. He would have fallen again through 
the qualities, or the lack of them, that had brought his 
present downfall. Both of these men were equally un- 
scrupulous. Mr. Vandemere would not buy worthless 
bonds in a losing venture. He would not take those it 
would be criminal for him to touch, on any account. He 
was one of those, however, whose best recommendation 
of honesty is its proved good policy. He was, in all re- 
spects, legally honest. Neither he nor Mr. Storrs felt 
an emotion, one way or the other, on account of those 
who suffered the defeats of their victories. 

Mr. Storrs, waiting dejectedly in the library for the 
unfolding of his fate, was not brooding over the despair 
of hundreds of small operators in the oil fields, whose 
ruin he had helped to encompass, but over his own bitter 
strait. When the door opened he believed it to be Mr. 
Vandemere, and he could not look at him. He felt the 
humiliation of his position. 

The voices of children caused him to look up and turn 
his head slightly. He saw his nephew, Richard Vande- 
mere, a slender, fair-haired boy of fifteen, and with him 
little Dora Preston, who, though no relation, had served 
him for a sister since he could remember. Dora was 
twelve years old, and had passed most of her life in the 


60 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


care of Mrs. Vandemere. Her father was Judge Joshua 
Preston, whose family had been intimate with the Vande- 
meres since the old Knickerbocker days. When Dora 
was three years old her mother had died, and Mrs. Van- 
demere had taken her into the nursery, which Richard 
was beginning to convert into a workshop. 

As the children entered the library Dora was saying: 

“I found it this morning, Dick.” 

She stopped suddenly, seeing some one sitting in one 
of the great leather chairs. Mr. Storrs’ face was partly 
concealed by his hand, and she did not at once recognise 
him. 

“Oh, Dick,” she whispered, catching him by the arm, 
“some one’s in here.” 

“Good afternoon, Uncle Henry,” said Richard, as 
Mr. Storrs looked at him. “Will we disturb you? We 
came for a book.” 

Mr. Storrs aroused himself for a moment. Even in 
the presence of these children he remembered appear- 
ances. He did not wish them to notice any change in him. 

“No, indeed,” he said, smiling and holding out a hand 
to his nephew ; “what book is it, my boy ?” 

“I don’t know, sir. Dora discovered it by accident 
and don’t remember the name.” 

“Here it is,” said the girl, pulling a large volume from 
a shelf. “It is ‘Paradise Lost.’ ” 

Her eyes glowed, for the world to her was still an 
enchanted land, with exhaustless treasures to discover. 

“Have you never seen it before?” asked Mr. Storrs, 
gently. “It is very old. I read it when I was a boy, 
not much older than you, Richard. I remember the pic- 


A CUSTODIAN’S CONSCIENCE 


61 


tures by Dore. They are very fine indeed, Dora. When 
you are old enough to read the poem you will find it 
even more wonderful than the pictures.” 

Dora, lured by his quiet, kindly voice, came with her 
book in her arm close beside him. Her slight form, 
though exceedingly graceful, was still altogether child- 
ish. Her cheeks and throat might have been those of a 
girl half her age. But her lips, sensitive and tender ; her 
large grey eyes, darkened by long lashes and the plead- 
ing, love-bestowing soul within them, seemed almost 
womanly in their maturity and power of expression. 
Were she to live forever she could not be more pure than 
she was, nor more affectionate. Those in whom such 
qualities dominate do not require age for their develop- 
ment. Passion can add nothing to their love. They 
receive always less from the world and from time than 
they give. They are children of the future, in them- 
selves prophetic glimpses of its beauty. Life seldom 
brings them happiness, but because they live, the power 
of life to bestow happiness is increased. It absorbs their 
virtues while trampling them under its feet. 

“Am I not old enough to read it now?” she asked, 
looking up at him earnestly. 

“Hello, Henry ; what’s this I hear?” asked Mr. Vande- 
mere, abruptly, as he entered. Mr. Storrs rose and 
indicated with a look and gesture his wish not to speak 
of his affairs while the children were there. They left 
the room and the two men were alone. 

“Susan tells me you have failed,” said Mr. Vandemere, 
fixing his clear, questioning eyes upon his brother-in- 
law. 


62 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Storrs, returning the gaze 
calmly, his eyes, however, assuming their non-committal 
hue. 

“What is it, the bank?” 

“The bank is involved. I have lost my money through 
the Keystone Oil Company.” 

“Are you in that? Has it foundered?” 

“It is not known yet, but will be in a day or so ; per- 
haps to-morrow.” 

“How much have you lost?” 

“Every penny, and one hundred thousand I have bor- 
rowed.” 

“How is the bank involved?” 

“It is in no condition to meet a run. I have learned 
lately that certain securities we bought for two hundred 
thousand dollars are not worth twenty. I have also dis- 
covered that our cashier is short over two thousand dol- 
lars in his accounts, and that twenty thousand dollars of 
the bank’s bonds have been taken by some one who put 
dummies in their place.” 

During this colloquy the two men had stood face to 
face, looking into each other’s eyes. Mr. Vandemere’s 
were keen, comprehending and watchful. He spoke 
quickly, almost sharply, in his single desire to get at the 
facts. Mr. Storrs answered more slowly, but neither his 
voice nor his manner expressed agitation. His face, 
however, was slightly flushed. Mr. Storrs resumed his 
seat, and Mr. Vandemere drew a chair near him. 

“Well, Henry,” he said, with a note of sympathy, 
“your statement reveals rather a hopeless case.” 

Mr. Storrs nodded and said nothing. He had not 


A CUSTODIAN’S CONSCIENCE 63 

really expected his brother-in-law to shoulder this load. 
He would not have done so for him. 

“What is the bank’s surplus?” asked Mr. Vandemere. 

“Forty thousand.” 

“You see, it would require about two hundred thou- 
sand to make it solvent. That is a large sum. This is a 
hard blow to you, but men have recovered from such re- 
verses. I don’t see anything in it threatening your per- 
sonal reputation, however. Susan intimated something 
of the sort. Is there?” 

Mr. Storrs did not meet the other’s eyes, nor did he 
seem to avoid them. He looked dejectedly before him. 

“I am personally accountable for those missing bonds. 
No one but myself is supposed to handle the bank’s se- 
curities.” 

“But,” said Mr. Vandemere in surprise, “of course, 
the cashier took them ?” 

“I could not prove it. He would probably deny it, 
and I would be under suspicion.” 

“He is short in his cash account, you say? There 
would be no question as to his guilt in this matter, also. 
No one would accuse you.” 

The thing was so plain to Mr. Vandemere that he won- 
dered at any anxiety on this account. 

“It would be safer if those bonds could be replaced 
to-morrow,” said Mr. Storrs. “I would like to do that, 
William. Won’t you lend me the twenty thousand?” 

“To cover up the tracks of a defaulter? Not I.” 

Mr. Vandemere spoke quickly, angrily. He would not 
countenance the slightest approach to the compounding 
of felony. A moment later a suspicion of the truth came 


64 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

to him. He looked narrowly at Mr. Storrs, and, as he 
looked, conviction displaced the suspicion. He was on 
the point of accusing him of the theft and getting rid 
of him, when he remembered his wife and her demand. 
When he spoke again his voice was cold and his manner 
reserved. He had devised a plan, and would put it 
through with his characteristic dispatch. 

“You know the address of your cashier?” 

“Yes.” 

“Send for him.” 

Mr. Storrs deliberated a moment, and said slowly : 

“He might take alarm at such an unusual summons 
and attempt to escape.” 

“If I were you I would give him plenty of time to do 
so. He will not return for the purpose of accusing you. 
He would rather be blamed for taking the bonds than im- 
prisoned for what he did take.” 

Mr. Storrs flushed quickly and dropped his eyes. 

“Send your coachman with a verbal message. Don’t 
write.” He got up and walked to the door, adding : “I 
will be back in two hours on the chance of his coming. 
If he should, we will inform him of the extent of his 
defalcation. We may induce him to admit it all. If he 
denies the bonds he may find a chance to escape.” 

Having outlined this perfectly safe plan he left the 
room. 

“John,” he said to his butler, “send Mr. Storrs’ coach- 
man in to him.” 

Mr. Vandemere’s course seemed perfectly consistent to 
himself. He would not advance money for the purpose 
of eluding justice. Money was a tangible thing and its 


A CUSTODIAN’S CONSCIENCE 65 

progress could be traced. It might be possible to cover 
the tracks of an idea. 

He went upstairs, where he knew his wife and Mrs. 
Storrs were expecting him, and explained the situation 
to them briefly. His wife comprehended nothing of the 
matter. She had expressed her wishes, and was certain 
that William would gratify them, as he always did. 

Mrs. Storrs had ceased her complaints and sobs upon 
his entrance and listened to his statement eagerly. She 
gathered from his guarded words that Mr. Storrs had 
surely lost his money and was in some way liable to 
a criminal charge; that nothing could restore to them 
their luxurious estate, but that the threatening scandal 
might possibly be averted through a confession of the 
cashier. 

Grief of loss, disgust of the gloomy, sordid future be- 
fore her, anger at the man who had ruined her, fear of 
the scorn of the world, and a hope of escape from this 
last calamity, fought for the mastery of her soul. 

“Will it do any good,” she asked, casting an uncon- 
scious glance into the mirror, “if I see this cashier and 
beg him to confess?” 

Mr. Vandemere looked his astonishment at this sug- 
gestion. It would never have occurred to him. He re- 
membered, however, that a beautiful woman in her dis- 
tress was supposed to effect curious things, but the idea 
did not appeal to him. 

“That would be an unpleasant thing for you,” he an- 
swered, “and would hardly accomplish what self-interest 
could not.” 

“I must be prepared for unpleasant things,” sighed 


66 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Mrs. Storrs. “I cannot think of myself now. My 
children ” 

Her lips quivered, the tears rose, she pressed her hand- 
kerchief to her eyes. After a moment she said with re- 
gained’ composure : 

“Yes, I will see this cashier.” 

Once arrived at this point of resignation and self- 
sacrifice, her mind was busy with its possibilities. She 
began at once to consider how a Christian woman, a 
gentle, refined woman of misfortune, should bear herself 
in this pitiful position. Her reflections terminated with 
a resolution for the immediate present and a vague policy 
of suffering endurance for the future. 

“I will go now,” she said, painfully, “and sit with 
him.” 

She glided to the library and slipped quietly into a 
seat by her husband, resolutely closing her lips on every 
reproach. She could not altogether refrain from weep- 
ing — no one could expect that. But she exercised this 
privilege as unobtrusively as possible, turning her head 
from him and covering her face with her hands. Mr. 
Storrs did not stir in his chair. He waited in utter 
weariness of mind and body. 

The clamour of the door-bell caused him to start 
abruptly. Mr. Yandemere and Harry King entered to- 
gether. 

“Clara,” said Mr. Vandemere, “it would, perhaps, be 
better for you to leave us a little while. Mr. King has 
called upon a private business.” 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Storrs, rising, with a glance of ap- 
peal at the gentlemen, “I hope you will let me stay. I 


A CUSTODIAN'S CONSCIENCE 


67 


am sure that Mr. King will not mind. I will explain 
my motives. You know it isn’t curiosity. I — I would 
not add anything to his distress by my presence here. 
This thing is so vital. Oh, Mr. King,” she exclaimed, 
stepping dramatically toward him, “on your decision de- 
pends the future of my innocent children and the en- 
durance of my own reason. I — I ” She turned 

away, and sinking into a chair, burst into sobs. 

Harry King still stood just inside the door. He had 
looked upon this woman, shaking with emotion, and 
listened to her words with, at first, a look of profound 
astonishment. Before she had finished, his eyes left her 
face and sought the floor. He did not move or make an 
answer. 

Mr. Vandemere, turning to him, said quietly : 

“You probably know by this time that your defalca- 
tion has been discovered.” 

The pale, serious face of the cashier expressed only a 
deeper pallor, a more solemn gravity than before. 

“I do not understand,” he said distinctly, but in a 
voice a little* above a whisper, “how my small offence 
could so seriously affect Mrs. Storrs.” 

“Will you inform him?” asked Mr. Vandemere, look- 
ing at Mr. Storrs. 

The latter made a motion of his head, indicating his 
desire not to speak, and Mr. Vandemere continued: 
“Since you have answered Mr. Storrs’ summons, it will 
be our duty to see that you do not leave this house except 
in the custody of an officer. You will be arrested, and 
unquestionably convicted of taking a certain amount of 
cash from the bank. I will tell you frankly that it will 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


68 

not be so easy to prove that you stole the missing bonds. 
I would like to ask now if you did so, and if you will 
make a confession of the fact before the Court ?” 

Harry King lifted his eyes for a moment to Mr. 
Storrs’ face, and dropped them again, making no reply. 

“Now, Mr. King,” resumed Mr. Vandemere, after a 
moment, “I would like to ask you if you are married?” 

“I am not,” said Mr. King. 

“Is anyone dependent upon you?” 

“No.” 

“You are alone* in the world?” 

“I have a sister, but I have arranged for her sup- 
port.” 

Mr. Vandemere viewed the young man before him 
closely, but there was a perceptible shade of warmth in 
his keen eyes. One might almost have suspected an ex- 
pression of pity in them. 

“Mr. King,” he said, “you will be sent to the peniten- 
tiary for what can be readily proved against you. You 
will be accused of taking certain bonds that are missing.” 

“No, no,” said Mr. Storrs quickly, “not that. I will 
not accuse you, Harry. I will say nothing.” 

Mr. Vandemere shot a swift glance of contempt in the 
direction of his brother-in-law, turned his back abruptly, 
and walked toward the door. Before he reached it, 
however, he turned, and retracing his steps, continued: 

“Guilt in this matter will be laid at the door of either 
you or Mr. Storrs. If Mr. Storrs says nothing, you 
will probably be convicted. Now, Mr. King, it is worth 
something to us to avoid an unnecessary mixing of Mr. 
Storrs’ name in this matter, I wish to say, that if you 


A CUSTODIAN’S CONSCIENCE 69 

will not put us to the anxiety and expense of proving 
that you are the sole criminal in this affair, we will ex- 
ercise our influence for the utmost clemency of the law, 
and assist you in beginning your life over again when 
your term has expired.” 

Mrs. Storrs, with an effort to control her tumultuous 
sobs, looked toward the cashier, and cried : 

“Mr. King, I beg ” 

He interrupted her with a gesture, and turning to Mr. 
Vandemere, said: 

“I will make the confession, but I release you now 
from any obligation in the matter.” 

Mr. Storrs fell back in his chair. Mrs. Storrs left 
the room weeping. Mr. Vandemere found himself with- 
out appropriate words. The suddenness of this conces- 
sion and its simplicity bewildered him. He felt that the 
young man was sincere in his refusal of any reward for 
his services. His curiosity, however, was exceedingly 
brief. He had gained what he sought, and was anxious 
for the termination of this disagreeable affair. He still 
experienced an unusual feeling of sympathy for Mr. 
King*, and was, for the moment, at a loss for a method 
of disposing* of him. He could not bring himself to 
summarily post him off to jail upon the instant of his 
consent. The uncomfortable silence was broken by the 
cashier, who looked up and said quietly : 

“If you will send for the officer, Mr. Vandemere, I will 
go with him at once.” 

“Sit down, Mr. King,” said Mr. Vandemere, indicat- 
ing the chair Mrs. Storrs had left. He rang the but- 
ler’s bell. 


70 THE UNWRITTEN^ LA W 

“John, take Mr. King’s hat, and — ” his voice softened 
as he added after an instant’s hesitation, “and, John, call 
a police officer.” 

The three men sat near each other in silence. Pres- 
ently Mr. Storrs said with a trembling voice : 

“Harry, I am profoundly grateful to you. I — you 
might have escaped part of this guilt. Perhaps you 
could have made me share it with you.” 

“You owe me nothing,” said the cashier. “I have 
been hard pressed.” He leaned forward, covering his 
face with his hands. “I could not have escaped,” he 
murmured. “It was all a great mistake.” 

During the interval of quiet waiting that followed, he 
seemed unconscious of their presence. He was young, 
and the gaudy world had tempted him with its chimerical 
promises. He was young, and the lash of punishment 
found in the heart it fell upon the sentiment that wishes 
to atone. This comfort, pathetic as it was, would have 
seemed unreal, ridiculous to these men beside him, who 
were no longer young. But there was that in their own 
situation to complicate their feeling toward him. They 
could, not readily assume the approved attitude of 
prompt, unthinking disapproval and rebuke. Even a 
benevolent pity was denied them. Mr. Vandemere grew 
more and more uncomfortable in his silent presence, and 
it was with a feeling of great relief that he received the 
officer, and saw him taken away. 

Shortly after, Mr. Storrs and his wife went home. 
After they were gone, Mr. Vandemere walked leisurely 
over to the Manhattan Club. 

“Is Mr. Whitaker here?” he asked' of the door-boy, 


A CUSTODIAN’S CONSCIENCE 71 

and was told that he was. He found this man in the 
billiard- room and calling him to one side, said: 

“You need not make that offer of consolidation to the 
Keystone Oil Company to-morrow.” 

“So?” said the other. 

“No ; they have collapsed. They may hang on for a 
day or so, but the life is out of them.” 

Mr. Whitaker smiled cheerfully. 

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Shall we raise the 
price of refined?” 

“No,” said Mr. Vandemere thoughtfully. “I would 
lower it half a cent instead. The failure of the Key- 
stone might, put heart into some of the small companies 
still left. We must dispose of them all now and be done 
with them.” 

On the following day, the Keystone people threw up 
their hands, and this failure, with the arrest of Harry 
King, were the two best news subjects of the day. The 
evening papers published Mr. Storrs’ personal connec- 
tion with the oil company and the loss of his fortune. 
This, with the defalcation, precipitated a run. The in- 
solvency was discovered when nearly all of its resources 
were exhausted in the payment of depositors, and when 
its doors were closed, it was practically upon a worthless, 
empty shell. 

Men like Mr. Storrs do not recover from such reverses. 
His mind was shattered, his life broken. He died, four 
years after his downfall, in the third-storey back room of 
his wife’s boarding-house in Washington Square. 

The name of Storrs had been saved from criminal re- 
proach. Mrs. Storrs could still look the world in the 


72 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


face and, from her humbler sphere, still raise a voice in 
fixing its standards of morality. It had been possible 
to do this without considering the bank’s depositors, and 
they were? therefore? left to consider for themselves. 


CHAPTER VII. 


A GOOD MAN ADRIFT. 

H AD Karl Fischer been more in touch with the 
world he would have rescued his ten thousand 
dollars, the price he had paid for a peaceful 
old age. As it was, he did not even know of the failure. 
From the day he left the shop, he remained almost en- 
tirely within his own yard. His longest walk took him 
no further than around the block. Now and then, he 
induced Katrina to take his arm and hobble with him to 
the park in the afternoon. They would sit close beside 
each other on a bench, watch the children romping, listen 
to the stirring of the leaves over them, doze a little and 
return home, silent and contented. The day after the 
failure, Mr. Englehart, coming home from work, nodded 
to Karl at his gate and said in passing: 

“That was a bad failure of the People’s, Karl.” 

Karl nodded and smiled as he always did, when his 
neighbours addressed him, and replied in his soft gut- 
tural : 

“Oh, yah — you pet,” a phrase that had served him 
for polite conversation since he had required any Eng- 
lish at all. He seldom comprehended what was said to 
him beyond a “Good evening” or “A pleasant day, 
73 


74 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Karl.” When neighbours came to him for some special 
request, they were met on the first inquiry by his “Oh, 
yah — you pet,” and had to repeat and explain their er- 
rand more than once. When he perceived that some- 
thing more than an idle greeting was intended, his whole 
countenance expressed an eagerness to comprehend what 
service was required of him. The moment he under- 
stood, he was all absorbed in performing it. 

He went to the bank four times a year for his interest, 
receiving one hundred dollars each quarter. He had 
gone last in April. In July, he went again. It was an 
oppressive afternoon, but he was able to walk the three 
miles quite comfortably, by keeping in the shade of the 
buildings and stopping to rest now and then. He never 
thought of riding. People who save ten thousand dol- 
lars from wages and washing money, can spend very 
little for car fare. He would sit on the curb, or a horse- 
block, or a box in front of a store, remove his hat to fan 
himself, and wipe the sweat from his forehead. From 
all such stations of repose he would gaze about him with 
a genial, friendly spirit. There was something peculiar 
about this three-mile journey of his that no one noticed, 
except, perhaps, that capable intelligence which may 
some day judge the world. If children were playing in 
the neighbourhood of his post of rest, he did not disturb 
them, but more often became to them a natural con- 
venience. They would find a place of hiding between his 
knees, or make of him their goal. A dog, weary with 
trotting and nosing of unproductive nooks, would lie 
panting at his feet. The horse of a delivery wagon, 
halted near the horse-block where he sat, would lower his 


A GOOD MAN ADRIFT 


75 

head for a caress. To chronicle such things as these, 
may seem to give an exaggerated importance to the 
trivial, but it is only by considering them that the true 
significance of a being like Karl Fischer may be under- 
stood. 

It was almost three o’clock when Karl Fischer reached 
the bank. He climbed the familiar steps, and pushing 
open the door, walked into a strange room. The heavy 
bank furnishings had been removed, and the place was 
now divided into several compartments by low railings. 
There were a half-dozen roll-top desks, and a few chairs. 
Strange people he had never seen before, were writing 
at the desks, or, tilted back in their chairs, were talking 
and consulting maps. As he stood in some confusion, 
not yet convinced he had entered the wrong place, a clerk 
stepped up to him and inquired his errand. 

“I haf come for mein moneys,” said Karl slowly, look- 
ing blankly into the clerk’s face. 

“What money? Do we owe you anything?” 

“It iss the bank nicht?” asked Karl, looking slowly 
about him. “I haf mistooken it, yah?” 

“Oh, the bank? That’s gone. This is the real estate 
office of McFarland & Brady. They don’t owe you 
anything, do they ?” 

“I haf some moneys in der bank yet,” said Karl, anx- 
ious to solve the puzzle. 

“You had, eh? Well, you’re around rather late to 
get it. The bank is gone up. It isn’t here any more. 
Do you understand?” 

“Oh, yah. It iss gone. I understand. Vere iss it?” 

“It isn’t anywhere, I tell you. It has failed.” The 


76 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

clerk saw he was not making himself clear, and anxious 
to get back to his work, added in a louder tone, “You’ve 
lost your money. The bank was closed up two months 
ago.” 

Karl watched the young man walk away, then turned 
slowly, fumbled at the door handle, and stepped outside. 
He inspected the door for some time, but could make 
nothing of it. It looked different, but he had never 
known what the lettering meant. Some one jostled him 
aside and passed in. He walked down the steps and 
looked up at the building. It was the same. He moved 
to the edge of the sidewalk to be out of the way, and 
stood for an hour scanning the buildings before him, 
looking vaguely at the passers-by and at the stone under 
his feet. If some one paused beside him, he would touch 
his arm and say: “Iss it the bank nicht? Vere iss it?” 
This generally drove his neighbour on with a sidewise 
glance, but occasionally one would reply: “The bank? 
Oh, that failed two months ago.” 

Finally a policeman on the corner saw him, and con- 
cluding by his suspicious conduct that he was a beggar, 
sauntered over and touched him with his club. 

“What you standin’ here for?” he asked roughly. 

“I cornin’ for mein moneys. I haf der bank lost. 
Vere iss it?” 

“Oh, you did, eh? Well, the bank’s gone up. You 
won’t see your money, and you can’t get it by hangin’ 
around here. You’d better move along.” 

Karl’s eyes filled with tears. He could not understand 
this thing, but he was tired and perplexed, and he began 
to realise that, whatever had happened, his money was 


A GOOD MAN ADRIFT 


77 

gone. He started back in the direction of his home, for- 
getting even to stop and rest, seeing nothing about him, 
his eyes bent on the walk, frequently shaking his head 
and murmuring to himself : 

“Der moneys. Vere iss it? All mein moneys and 
Gadreena’s, too. It iss gone.” 

He kept his course homeward by force of habit, and 
turned the corner of his own block, unconscious of the 
neighbourhood he was in until Thekla came to meet him 
near his gate. When he saw her, he dropped upon his 
knees, and drawing her into his embrace, fell to blubber- 
ing, his bearded face close to her neck. Instantly the 
colour left the girl’s face and returned as a rushing 
flame. Her eyes dilated with anxious alarm. She threw 
her arms about her father and wailed: 

“Oh, Fahter, Fahter.” 

“Mein kleines Tekla kindi,” he moaned. “Ach, Gott! 
Ach, Gott !” 

Thekla wailed and wept and tugged at his shoulders. 

“Get up, get up,” she urged frantically. “Oh, dear, 
oh, Fahter, up gessin ; komme nach hause.” 

He got to his feet and she led him through the gate. 
Their faces were streaming with tears, he scarcely know- 
ing what grief was upon him, and she not asking. Such 
unintellectual beings, who live only as they feel, do not 
reason over their sorrows. Disaster hangs over them as 
a cloud, darkening their world and plunging their souls 
in woe. They cannot discuss their sorrows nor find re- 
lief from their anxiety in the chances of hope or revenge. 

They entered the house, hand in hand, stumbling to- 
gether up the two low steps of the porch, their sight 


78 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


blurred by tears. Mrs. Fischer, sitting in the kitchen 
door, paring potatoes, heard them coming, and putting 
down her pan, caught up her cane and hobbled anxiously 
to meet them. 

“Tekla, Tekla,” she cried, “bist du hurted?” 

An instinct, born of affection, prompted Karl to wipe 
the tears quickly from his face and to say, as he com- 
forted Katrina: 

“Yah, dat vas it. Tekla felt down mit her nose 
pumpit. Run out, Tekla,” he continued, pushing her 
into the room behind him. “Run out and blay — you vas 
all right alretty.” 

Thekla, without the least surprise at the lie, ready, in 
fact, to back it up and believe it, checked her sobs and 
ran off to the park, rubbing her fists into her eyes. 

Karl did not tell Katrina of their loss. This was not 
due to any deliberate design to keep the blow from her. 
He did not say to himself : “I will bear this thing alone. 
She shall never know.” He simply could not tell her, 
and he bore it alone. All the evening he sat beside her, 
in his old-fashioned, high-back rocker, upholstered with 
fat, red cushions of her making, and looked at her ten- 
derly. If his eyes filled now and then, he closed them, 
pretending to doze. He only spoke to her once. Just 
before going to bed he said in German : 

“To-morrow I will go back to the shop. I am lone- 
some away from it. I will work a while longer.” 

In the morning he trudged downtown again, taking 
his dinner-pail. He climbed the narrow stairway to the 
second floor of one of the old f rame buildings still stand- 
ing on Fulton street, near the bridge, and entered the 


A GOOD MAN ADRIFT 


79 


little private office of Andrew Busch, who, for over 
twenty years, had kept an engraving establishment there. 
Mr. Busch was nearly sixty years old. His thin hair 
and beard were almost white. His face, in spite of its 
care-worn expression, its leaden hue of long, close con- 
finement, bore a kindly expression. 

“Why, good-morning, Karl,” he said as his old em- 
ployee entered, dinner-pail in hand, “did you come to 
take lunch with me?” 

“Goot morgen, Mister Push,” said Karl with a nod, 
“I haf cornin’ back to vork yet.” 

Mr. Busch smiled good-naturedly and shook his head. 

“Sorry, Karl, but your bench is taken. You are too 
old to work. You must let the young fellows have their 
day. You should be glad you can quit. I wish I could.” 

“I must vork some more,” said Karl. “My money iss 
gone. It iss gone up alretty.” 

“You don’t mean it,” said Mr. Busch in great aston- 
ishment. “Why, Karl, where is it?” 

“I don’t know vere iss it. Der pank went away 
mit it.” 

“I remember now,” said Mr. Busch, “you had it in the 
People’s. Yes, I thought of you the day it failed, but 
supposed you would get it out. Didn’t you know it in 
time? I might have sent word to you, but I didn’t think 
to do it. Did you lose it all, Karl?” 

“Yah, it iss all gone, and Gadreena’s, too. I must 
vork.” 

Mr. Busch turned about in his chair and looked out of 
the window. His face was grave and anxious. He was 
profoundly distressed. 


80 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“I can’t do it, Karl. I am terribly sorry for you, but 
I can’t take you back. It is all I can do to hold myself 
in the business. Things are different from what they 
were ten years ago. Competition is too keen. I have lost 
money myself, Karl. I must get younger men and new 
machinery and learn new ways or go under. I’m afraid 
I’m too old to do it.” 

Karl did not altogether comprehend what he said, but 
only enough to fill his heart with fear. 

“I must cornin’ pack,” he said doggedly. “I must 
vork.” 

“I tell you I can’t take you back,” said Mr. Busch, 
irritated by his own emotion and helplessness. “I would 
if I could, but I can’t do it.” 

He began rummaging among the papers on his desk. 

A gleam of fright and desperation suddenly lighted 
Karl’s eyes. He began to tremble violently and 
broke forth into incoherent German, speaking rapidly, 
loudly, shaking his dinner-pail close to his old employer’s 
face. 

“Come, come, Karl,” cried Mr. Busch, rising quickly 
and taking him by the arm. “You’d better go home be- 
fore you get into trouble. Go home now,” he said, lead- 
ing him to the door and pushing him outside. 

Karl made no resistance, not even looking back when 
the door closed. He stumbled down the dark stairway 
and, without pausing, hurried up Fulton street to the 
building where the bank had been. Still mumbling to 
himself, he climbed the steps, and entered the real estate 
office of McFarland & Brady. 

“You,” he cried, looking about him wildly, “vo iss die 


A GOOD MAN ADRIFT 81 

pank gone up? I vant ’im. I vant my moneys pack. 
You must gif it me pack, alretty.” 

Every one in the office was looking at him in alarm. 

“It’s that crazy Dutchman again,” said the clerk who 
had spoken with him before. 

‘‘Well, put him out,” said McFarland sharply. “Give 
him to the police. We can’t have him coming around 
here. He might hurt somebody.” 

“Come with me,” said the clerk in a conciliatory voice, 
“I’ll show you where the bank is.” 

“Yah, yah,” said Karl, following him outside, his 
whole body trembling with excitement. “I must haf der 
moneys.” 

Two blocks away they found the officer, and the clerk*, 
leading Karl up to him, said : 

“Here’s a crazy Dutchman, who comes into our office 
and threatens us. He thinks he lost his money in the 
People’s. Better run him in and get him committed 
somewhere.” 

Karl was taken to the station-house, charged with dis- 
orderly conduct, and locked up to await examination. 
Fortunately, however, he was not kept there long. In 
the afternoon, the officer on whose beat Karl lived, 
dropped in, and seeing his name and address on the 
blotter, looked him up, and secured his release. He had 
been in confinement four hours, and when he came out 
he was quiet and thoughtful. There was something un- 
wonted in the expression of his eyes. A shade more of 
intelligence, the light of a purpose born of an idea. This 
idea, together with his first definite conception of how his 
money had gone, and of the world that had taken it, was 


82 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

given to him by a fellow-prisoner at the station, Abe 
Larkins, who had lately finished a term in the peniten- 
tiary for house-breaking, and was now awaiting exam- 
ination, charged with the same offence. He did not con- 
fide his story to Karl, but had listened to the half -under- 
stood troubles of the distracted German, gathering the 
truth from his statements and repetitions until he was 
able to make a clear explanation to Karl. Then he told 
him what he thought of the world, and what he would do 
if he were in his place. 

All the way home, and for many days afterward, Karl 
pondered over what he had heard. He told Katrina that 
he could not go back to the shop, and she was glad to 
have him with her, to sit with him in the park, to have 
him eat with her at noon, to rock and knit beside him on 
the porch, to watch him smoking at the gate. 

For almost a week Karl remained about the house and 
yard, apparently doing nothing, not even noticing his 
garden. He was formulating his purpose, feeling his 
way slowly like a clumsy craft in unknown waters against 
adverse winds and tides. Then one day he went into a 
little, unused room at the top of the house, with one win- 
dow overlooking the backyards of the block, and piled the 
rubbish that had accumulated there into orderly heaps. 
In the afternoon he went to a paint store on Tompkins 
avenue and bought a pane of glass and some moulding 
for a frame, and two brackets. Taking these to the 
little room, he made the frame, fitted it about the pane of 
glass and fastened it to the window-sash by means of the 
brackets in such a way that it afforded him a transparent 
surface, inclining, like the top of a writing-desk, between 


A GOOD MAN ADRIFT 


83 


his eyes and the light. Then he came out, and locking 
the door, put the key in his pocket. All the following 
day he spent in this room, with the door locked. When 
he came out, there was ink on his fingers. 

He told Katrina that he wanted the little room for a 
work-shop ; that he would feel better if he were busy a 
portion of each day. He told her that no one must 
bother him when he was there nor enter the room in his 
absence. He would always keep the door locked, but she 
must not go there nor allow any one else to. They would 
disturb his things. After this he was locked in his work- 
shop every morning for two hours during six years. 
Katrina was not curious ; she had never thought about 
Karl except to love him and take care of him and believe 
what he told her. Emeline and Thekla never thought of 
the matter. Not one of the household, except Karl, knew 
of the loss of their money and that these two hours of 
labor every day provided their support. What he did 
there no one but he knew. He never seemed to take any- 
thing with him to the room nor to bring anything away. 
He no longer put a hundred dollars at regular intervals, 
four times a year, into Katrina’s hands, nor brought to 
her his wages at the end of the week. Once a month, ac- 
companied by Thekla, he went over to New York and 
bought a supply of groceries — all they could carry in 
four double-handled market baskets. He divided his 
patronage among a number of large establishments, 
going to each place not quite once a year. After these 
trips he gave Katrina fifteen dollars for the rent and 
fifteen for all the remaining expenses of the household 
for the month. 


84s 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Karl kept his family from want, but his heart was 
troubled. The tranquil expression once ever present in 
his kindly eyes, was now seldom there. He could no 
longer stand at his gate or walk the streets, gazing 
about him at a beautiful, vague, but friendly world. It 
was no longer as vague, as beautiful, or as friendly. 
His experiences with it during his search for his stolen 
money had filled him with terror of it, and the words of 
Abe Larkins, whose own conception was clearly defined, 
had given it a shape in his crude imagination. It was 
now for him a threatening, impending danger; a huge, 
impersonal power, with a sinister eye. But it was not 
this fear of the world that alone troubled him. He did 
not know what to do with his children. He began to 
suffer through them in countless ways. He did not 
know that this must have been so in any event ; that it 
was the natural result to follow on the development of 
their personalities. His life, so intimately connected 
with them, must have* begun to feel at this time the dis- 
turbances of theirs, for though their roots were still in 
his being, they were reaching like restless vines toward 
the life outside. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


IN STRANGE LANDS . 

F ROM the day when Emeline had talked with Mrs. 

Storrs, she was possessed with a restless, dis- 
satisfied spirit. She had felt the whip and the 
spur, but did not see the goal, nor know in what direction 
to look for it. 

So long as her new clothes lasted she could experience 
occasional hours of satisfaction, but even they were not 
unmixed with distress. She never again went to the 
Lutheran Hall with her father and Thekla. For sev- 
eral Sundays after her abortive effort to join the Marcy 
Avenue Sunday School, she arrayed herself carefully, 
and sat in state on the front porch all the morning. She 
did not allow the thoughtless and impetuous Thekla to 
hug her, for fear of mussing her clothes ; but she offered 
her cheek for a kiss, and watched her father and sister 
depart on their humble pilgrimage with a mingled feel- 
ing of calm superiority and troubled sadness. At the 
proper time, she would leave her chair on the porch, and, 
watched in turn by the weak, doting eyes of her mother, 
walk sedately down the street. Her heart beat loudly 
and her legs grew weak as she neared the church every 
Sunday and passed it. When it was well behind her, she 

85 


8(3 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


walked with a dejected air, her fine clothes forgotten, her 
soul lost in gloomy brooding. For an hour she sat on 
her bench, her sombre eyes fixed upon the temple, a 
strange, pathetic, ominous sight for any who would see 
and understand. 

But it was not on Sunday alone that Emeline wore her 
new plumage. As the evenings became warm and fine, 
she would put them on after supper and go with Thekla 
to the park. This enclosure so pleasing to Emeline in 
the afternoon, was a place of unbounded delight to 
Thekla when the day was over and the mysterious, event- 
ful darkness fell. The moment she entered there was 
something in the deepening shadows of the twilight, in 
the cool wind that brushed her hair, in the stirring 
branches of the trees and bushes above and around her, 
and more than all, in the growing murmurs of young 
voices, the shouts, the whispers, the smothered titterings 
and loud laughter, the moving forms about her, that 
made her blood tingle, her eyes snap, and her heart 
bound with a thousand unnamed anticipations. From 
seven o’clock until ten, from a thousand to fifteen hun- 
dred boys and girls people this park every spring and 
summer evening. The great majority are somewhere 
between nine and* seventeen. They are the ones that 
give the place its spirit, that move and shift, gathering 
now in the broad pools of electric light along the centre 
walks, or lurking under the trees, or filling the benches of 
the shadowy sideways. 

The boys and girls of nine and ten are often in bois- 
terous groups together, just beginning, perhaps, in 
many cases, to realise some difference in sex, but as yet 


IN STRANGE LANDS 


87 


feeling little diffidence, or fear, or respect, or curiosity 
concerning it. The boys and girls from eleven to fifteen 
are in groups almost entirely apart from each other. 
The girls are the more aggressive. They move con- 
stantly here and there, sitting down, a tittering flock, 
where the boys must notice them, only to move on again 
when they have been noticed, with sniffs of resentment, 
believing in their curious hearts that they have been 
driven away by this particular group of bold boys. At 
sixteen the two sexes begin once more to mingle, but it is 
not unconsciously, as children run together, unmindful 
of everything but their play. They have watched and 
wondered, and coquetted from a distance, and are now 
being drawn together by impulses they could not name, 
by a curiosity grown alluring and strong. At seventeen 
they constantly gather in mixed groups and separate 
in pairs, wandering off into quiet places on journeys 
of adventure, retreating with palpitating hearts from 
the borders of strange lands, to gather and to separate 
again. 

Emeline went to Tompkins Avenue Park, only because 
she did not know of anything more congenial to do. She 
was restless and unwilling to be alone. This was not 
because she desired companionship. It was the very un- 
certainty of her desire that caused her restlessness. She 
was never a welcome addition to any group of girls she 
might join. She roamed about the park with first one 
and then another, separating from each because irritated 
by their conduct. She would frequently stand alone at 
a little distance from the others, watching them with a 
frown of restless annoyance. She was like a wary moth 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


hovering just outside the circle of light, gazing suspi- 
ciously at the flame that attracted her. 

When the two entered the park of an evening, Thekla 
wished to keep Emeline with her, and would at first re- 
main with the older girls for her sake, even going with 
her from one group to another, or standing with her 
aloof from them all. Sooner or later, however, she 
would forget Emeline when some tentative tilt resulted 
in a struggle for possession of a bench, and the boys, 
growing suddenly bold in the encounter, would seize upon 
the girls and hold them fast beside them. With a boy’s 
arm about her, Thekla could not remember things. The 
other girls would wriggle and protest and eventually get 
away, but Thekla invariably took the hand at her waist 
and drew the arm closer about her, neither protesting 
nor concealing her satisfaction. From that time on, 
during the evening, she was one with this group of boys. 
As soon as they were alone again, the fact that she was 
a girl was forgotten. The arm about her waist would 
relax and be withdrawn, as its owner required it, to light 
a cigarette or to show how he had punched the nose off 
Pete Johnson. 

Sitting there among these boys, Thekla learned a 
great deal of life. She learned that “the cop didn’t 
dast touch you if you weren’t doin’ nothin’, and youse 
cud report his number if he got too gay.” She al- 
ways knew who were the current heavy-weight, light- 
weight, feather-weight and bantam champions, when the 
last fight had occurred, how it was won, and when the 
next one would be. She knew that a Republican was 
always a side-whiskered skate, and that all the self-re- 


IN STRANGE LANDS 


89 


specting American citizens were Democrats. She knew 
who was the President of the United States, what ward 
she lived in, and the name of her alderman. She knew 
who held the records in the athletic world, and the names, 
the mounts and chances of all the flyers entered for the 
season at Sheepshead Bay. She could swear so easily 
and naturally as to attract no notice, but she was neither 
a bully nor a boaster, just a sturdy good-fellow, like the 
boys she mingled with. 

Everything was alike fascinating and joyous to her, 
until, in her ninth year, she began to feel the ache of de- 
sires in her heart. The race track, the prize ring, the 
show places, began to loom before her, nearer and nearer. 
She began to see them as*far-off places still, but growing 
close enough to call and beckon, and she longed to go 
herself, to see with her own eyes, to hear with her own 
ears, the wonders her companions spoke of. She would 
sit with them on the bench, humming or whistling with 
them the melodies they had caught at the shows, until 
her heart ached with the tenderness and pathos that every 
tune must have if boys are to remember it, and her fancy 
strove to picture the stage she had never seen. And 
then, one night, she went with them. A dozen of the 
boys chipped in to buy her a ticket. She sat with them 
in the first row of the gallery of the Park Theatre, lean- 
ing with them over the rail, her face on her arms, and 
her eyes fixed in rapture on the glistening tinsel of those 
who danced and sang. She did not heed the words; it 
was the rhythmic motion, the tuneful melody, the blazing 
lights, the colour, that filled her soul. 

When she reached home, it was twelve o’clock, and her 


90 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


father, distracted with anxiety, was just leaving the gate 
for another eager search. He walked slowly to the park 
and looked anxiously along the walks and over the lawn 
under the trees. The place seemed very lonely and de- 
serted. He quickened his steps, and taking the paths 
that skirted the park, walked entirely around it, looking 
in all directions, stopping now and then to peer closely 
among the bushes, to listen, to call her name. 

At twelve o’clock she came. When he saw her under 
the light at the corner his heart was flooded with a great 
joy, and any words of reproach he might have intended 
were swept away with his anxiety and fear. 

“Tekla, Tekla,” he cried, taking her in his arms, 
“vere haf you been?” 

“Why, Fahter,” she answered, eagerly hugging him 
close, suddenly realizing his alarm and distress, “I went 
to the show house. The boys bought me in. Oh, mein 
Fahter, don’t mind it. It was wonderful.” 

“You must tole me,” said Karl, hugging and kiss- 
ing her fondly, “ven you gose avay — mein kleines 
kindchen !” 

For several days after this Thekla was constantly 
humming and whistling “White Wings” and “Only a 
Pansy Blossom.” She talked to Emeline about the show, 
until even in her sister’s shadowy and troubled soul there 
crept some of the warmth of her enthusiasm. At first, 
Emeline listened reluctantly, irritably, .but without pro- 
test. Thekla, undaunted by her coldness, although won- 
dering at it, feeling the chill of it as she always did, sang 
and talked to her with an unconscious note of appeal in 
her voice and manner. She wanted Emeline to smile, to 


IN STRANGE LANDS 


91 


look happy, to enjoy what she enjoyed. When she 
hummed her tunes, she dwelt on every tone of tenderness, 
drawing them out to ridiculous lengths, gloating over 
the rich, melodious sounds. Again in the evening, Erne- 
line heard other songs, for all the park seemed filled with 
fitful gusts of them. Bars of the melodies came to her 
in the single whistle of a distant boy, from a group hum- 
ming them as they passed. They began to form and 
float through her mind in mournful cadence, but were 
allowed no expression from her lips. She remained in 
the park until ten every night, hanging about in the 
vicinity of Thekla, but refusing to remain with her. 
She would be willing, she told herself, to sit on the bench 
with Thekla or to walk with her and her friends, if the 
boys would leave her alone. She would not have them 
touching her. She wore her new white dress, beautifully 
washed and ironed by her mother every week. She spent 
a fine half-hour after supper dressing, curling her black 
hair about her forehead and ears and braiding it in two 
heavy braids fastened with crimson bows. The hat with 
its crimson poppies, her new silk stockings and gleaming 
shoes, her sash, her ribbons, and her gloves — all of these 
she wore. Then, if she could have sat quietly with the 
others, even unmolested by them, but just allowed to 
peacefully bask in her own self-consciousness, she would 
have been happy for the evening at least. But this 
could never be. The moment the boys or even the girls 
surrounded her, they were brushing carelessly against 
her, or purposely pulling her braids or her ribbons, or 
even putting their arms over her shoulders or about her 
waist, crumpling and soiling her dress and making her 


92 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

nervous. Then she would hitch away, saying, “Quit 
that.” 

Thekla would sometimes push her tormentors from 
her, good-humouredly saying, “Aw, go on, F reshy ; can’t 
you leave her alone?” She would coax Emeline not to 
mind them. 

Early one evening, the two girls were met at the park 
entrance by a crowd of boys evidently waiting for 
Thekla. “Come on,” said Pete Johnson, “we’re going 
to the show. We’ve chipped in for you.” 

“She can’t go,” broke in Emeline with a snap in her 
eyes, “unless I go too.” 

This was instantly greeted by a loud clamour from the 
boys. 

“Go* chase yourself.” “Go on home, you pie face.” 
“Who. wants you?” “Listen to the skinny leg.” 

Emeline* stood before them defiantly, a glow of colour 
mounting to her cheeks, her eyes snapping angrily. 

“She can’t go, I say,” she cried shrilly. “She must 
stay with me. Father said so.” 

One of the boys picked up a handful of dirt and threw 
it on her dress. 

“Was that you, Tommy Simpkins?” she cried in a 
sudden burst of passion, running toward him with her 
hands claw-shape. The boys laughed and stepped out 
of her way. Tommy caught her by the arm and whirled 
her around. He had not loosened his hold of her dress 
before Emeline, mad with humiliation and anger, 
wrenched herself from him. There was a sharp tearing 
sound. Her skirt had been completely severed from the 
waist and rent almost to the bottom in two places. 


IN STRANGE LANDS 93 

She could not speak, but stood holding out her skirt, 
looking at it in horror. 

“Oh, oh!” cried Thekla, “I’ll fix you for that, Tommy 
Simpkins,” and before anyone knew what was happen- 
ing, she had rushed upon him and struck him in the 
mouth with her clenched fist. Tommy Simpkins was 
eleven years old, a short red-headed boy, with a fat body, 
a turned-up nose, a merry, mischief -loving eye, a quick 
temper and a disposition both pugnacious and playful. 
He had never yet been struck a blow, either in fun or 
earnest, without returning it. 

The moment he felt the blow, one hand was clapped to 
his smarting mouth, and the other doubled up and plant- 
ed, as he would have expressed it, in Thekla’s face. Her 
head was knocked sidewise. She felt a great stinging 
patch on her cheek. “Oh — ouch !” she cried, and then in 
a moment all she had heard and thought of the great 
fights and fighters of the world returned to her. It was 
not manly to cry out. She was in this thing and must see 
it through. She would show him that she could take pun- 
ishment. She caught the glint of Tommy’s angry eye 
and her own blazed in answer. “Hit hard and quick,” 
she told herself, and before her cry of pain was well ut- 
tered, she was at him again, with both fists, landing on 
his nose and still smarting mouth. He had not time to 
think who he was hitting; he could only strike out and 
defend himself. The other boys, taken by surprise, stood 
excitedly about, forming a ring by instinct. Thekla had 
so long been as one of them that it seemed quite natural 
for her time to come. Every one of them had been 
obliged to establish his credit, to find his proper place 


94 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


with his fists. Emeline stood on the outskirts, frowning 
in sullen wrath. 

“Keep at him,” they cried, “you’ve got him going — 
finish him off there — good one !” “Oh, what a welt !” 

Both combatants by this time were bleeding at the 
nose, their cheeks, eyes and lips red from blows. Tom- 
my, half-blinded and gasping for breath, began to strike 
wild. Thekla, crowding close upon him, urged by the 
crowd and some strange, desperate demon within her, 
struck straight and furiously, moaning and swearing 
and sobbing as she struck. While he stood angrily be- 
fore her, hitting and hurting her, she felt only an eager, 
excited determination to endure. She did not know the 
strength of her big-boned body nor the heft of her 
sturdy fists. But when the blood smeared his face, and 
his eyes lost their gleam and he no longer hit her, her 
heart began to swell with anguish. Every blow she 
dealt became an agony to her, but she could not stop until 
Tommy toppled over at her feet. In a moment Thekla 
was beside him. 

“Oh, Tommy,” she moaned, “get up. You’ve licked 
me, Tommy. I’m bloodier’n you be. Oh !” — her words 
were drowned in the shouts and jeers of the boys. 

“Good for you, Thekla. Licked by a girl — Oh, you 
blubber-head, licked by a girl.” 

Tommy writhed on the ground. He knew his hu- 
miliation, and no wretched outcast of the world has ever 
more sincerely longed to die than did he. For a moment 
Thekla did not hear the jeers, but when she did, all her 
wrath returned to her, and jumping to her feet, she cried 
hotly, “He was, was he? Well, I kin lick any two of 


IN STRANGE LANDS 95 

you what twits him. Now, shut up or you’ll see if I 
can’t.” 

A panic seized the crowd. It vanished with a jostling 
rush through the park entrance, and Thekla saw, loom- 
ing before her, the ominous figure of the cop ! 

Thekla stood motionless, gazing in terror at the officer 
towering over her. He was six feet and three inches 
tall, and of huge proportions, even in the daytime, when 
viewed by conscious innocence. Now, with blood on her 
face and the boy she had beaten sputtering and choking 
on the ground, he could not be measured by feet and 
inches. He was the personification of immediate doom. 
She could not have run had she tried. 

“What’s all this here row about?” said the officer 
roughly, tapping her shoulder with his club. “Been 
fightin’, have you ?” 

At the sound of his voice, Tommy sat up, looking 
warily into the officer’s face. His cheeks and lips were 
begrimed with dirt and blood and tears, but a shrewd 
glint was in his eyes. He edged quickly away from the 
great foot extended to stir him up and scrambled to his 
feet. 

The officer caught him by the collar and yanked him 
to him. 

“Now, you talk up. Wuz you fightin’ this girl? A 
pretty looking pair you be.” 

“Naw, we wuzent fightin’,” said Tommy, sniffling but 
defiant. “Quit shakin’ me, will you? Whatcher nab- 
bin’ us fer? We’ve been done enough.” 

“You don’t look as if you’d been fightin’. Been bled 
fer yer health, I suppose?” 


96 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Them fellers what run off pitched into us. You 
don’t think I’d fight wid a girl?” 

He said this with such fine scorn, and looked up with 
such fearless, honest eyes, that the officer believed him 
and loosed his hold. 

“Well, be off with you,” he said, pushing the two from 
him. “I’ll run you in next time, and no questions 
asked.” 

He glared at them threateningly, and strode on into 
the park. It was his business to inspire children with 
fear. 

Emeline had stood at a distance, watching. At first 
she had gloated over the blow her tormentor received, but 
as the fight progressed she began to comprehend the full 
significance of her disaster. Her dress was ruined. 
She looked at the two long rents in growing grief and 
despair. Her mother would want to- mend them, but she 
should not, at least for her. Thekla might have it now. 
She would demand a new one. By the time the officer 
appeared, she had arrived at an outward, sullen com- 
posure. She waited until he passed on, and then crossed 
over the street to her sister. Casting a look of contempt 
upon Tommy, she said : 

“Come home, Thekla, I’m going.” 

“Wait, Emmie, wait,” said Thekla, anxiously, “we’re 
all bloody. We must wash it off. Come and help me, 
Emmie.” 

“With him?” demanded Emeline scornfully. “I’ll not 
go with him .” 

“Who wants yer?” asked Tommy. “Yer always 
hangin’ around, you old cat. Why don’t you go home?” 


IN STRANGE LANDS 97 

“No, no,” said Thekla, “don’t go, Emmie. Wait till 
I’m washed, won’t you ?” 

“No, I won’t.” 

“Oh, wait, please wait,” pleaded Thekla, distracted 
between her desire to stay with Tommy and make up, her 
wish to soothe Emeline, and her fear that she would get 
home first and tell. 

“Come, Tommy,” she said, seeing that Emeline did not 
go, “let’s hurry and 'wash.” 

The two bedraggled warriors went off together to one 
of the little fountains by the border walk of the park. 

“Don’t feel bad,” said Thekla, looking tearfully at 
Tommy, her voice choked with friendly desires. “You 
had me licked. If you’d hit me once ’more I’d been 
licked.” 

“No-,” said Tommy, a little sullenly, “you licked me 
for fair. I’ve nothin’ against you , Thekla. But you 
just wait.” 

“Oh, why didn’t I quit first? Why didn’t I fall 
down?” exclaimed Thekla woefully. 

“No, Thekla,” said the boy, without a trace of reserve 
or resentment, with even a note of warm approbation, 
“you kin lick me all right. But I’ll show them fellers 
what guyed me. I know who they are. I’ll break their 
faces for ’em to-morrow.” 

When they reached the fountain, Thekla had Tommy 
stoop over near it, and scooping water from the basin 
with her hand, washed his f ace first and wiped it with her 
dress. Then she washed her own, while Tommy stood 
with his hands in his pockets, telling her how he would 
“do them fellers to-morrow.” 


98 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“You kin stand by and watch me, Thekla,” he said. 
“I want yer to see I kin do it.” 

It took him longer than he said. But before, the week 
was over, he had thrashed all those who had mocked him 
and he stood once more in the favour of his fellows. For 
a long time after that Tommy and Thekla were somehow 
always together. She never told herself that she liked 
him best, but she never forgot the strange, disturbing 
sweetness that filled her breast when he drew her behind 
the bushes one night and kissed her. Of course, she had 
been kissed before by him and by the other boys, just as 
she had been slapped and pinched by them, but this kiss 
was different and she remembered it. About that time 
he disappeared from the neighbourhood. She still sang 
and whistled and consorted with the boys, growing up 
with them year by year, never thinking of any differ- 
ence between them, liking them all impartially, after 
Tommy went. 


CHAPTER IX. 


TO GET BACK HIS OWN . 

A FTER six years of anxious uncertainty for Karl, 
there came an abrupt change in the affairs of 
the Fischer family. One Friday afternoon in 
December, he went for his customary walk around the 
block. The first snow of the season was falling. He 
pulled his old felt hat over his eyes, turned up the collar 
of his rusty brown overcoat, bent his head to the storm, 
and plodded slowly, unmindful of his way, brooding over 
the«troubles that beset him. 

Emeline was now nineteen years old. Karl did not 
understand her desires, but he felt them as so many 
lashes falling upon him, day by day. It was enough 
for him, for Katrina and Thekla, to sit at the same table, 
to know at, night that the same roof covered them, to find 
in the morning that they were there. 

And the future frightened him with its impending 
want. If the sinister eye of the world should peer into 
his| little workshop and find him out, if he should die be- 
fore he had got his money back, what would become of 
his family? Would Katrina have to scrub and bake 
and wash again? What would Emeline and Thekla do? 
They were still little children to him. He never thought 


100 


the unwritten law, 

of their ability to work. He wished only for their Hap- 
piness. He could reason from no other view point, for 
he could conceive of no other. 

As he trudged through the storm, pondering over 
problems that only weighed upon his heart and clouded 
his mind, unable even to see them clearly, he kicked a 
woman’s purse from the snow. He looked at it a mo- 
ment, then slowly stooped and picked it up. He turned 
it over, wonderingly. It was a well-filled leather purse, 
bound at the edges with silver. He looked up and down 
the street. Two men were walking f rom him, more than 
a block away. No one else was in sight on that side of 
the street. Holding the purse in his hand, he hurried 
after the men. Karl was exceedingly awkward in his 
haste. His heavy body was unused to such efforts. 
With head stretched before him and his eyes fixed eagerly 
upon those he followed, with shoulders and elbows work- 
ing clumsily, he loped forward, gazing straight before 
him, calling frequently and reaching toward them with 
the hand that gripped the purse. Long before he over- 
took the men, they turned a corner, and when he reached 
it, they had disappeared. He stood, uncertain what to 
do, looking up the street, at the purse, shaking his head 
sadly. It seemed to him a terrible thing that any one 
should have lost his money. As he turned the purse over 
and over in his hands, he saw that a name was under the 
flap, printed in gilt letters. He at once turned home- 
ward. He would have Emeline or Thekla read the name 
for him. 

At half-past three Emeline and Thekla came home 
from school. Six years had made many changes in 


TO GET BACK HIS OWN 


101 


these girls. They were of the same height, for Thekla 
was very tall for her age. Her face was full and glow- 
ing, her eyes a clear, warm blue, her mouth, still ex- 
cessively large, had lost its grotesque expression as the 
lips had matured and become fixed in shape. It was 
a broad, whimsical, generous mouth, with lips very full 
and arching in the centre, and curved upward at the 
ends. Her tousled mass of hair was golden brown ; seen 
in the sunlight, it seemed to be red. 

Emeline was slender, but no one could call her skinny, 
now. This was because she was no longer so awkward. 
Her shoulders and elbows had become rounded and she 
held them more gracefully. Her form was maturing into 
lines suggestive of the sensuous. Her dark skin was clear 
and soft. The hue of her blood seldom appeared in her 
cheeks, but when it did they were beautiful. Her hair was 
as thick as Thekla’s, but almost black. It had been well- 
trained, and although covering her head and f ailing over 
her ears in heavy masses, it was always orderly, keeping 
the design of its dressing. Her eyebrows were narrow 
and finely curved ; her lashes, long and heavy, intensified 
the sombre depth of her eyes. Her countenance would 
have been interesting to any one allured by the mys- 
terious, and it might readily become exceedingly beauti- 
ful, could its expression of discontent pass from it, or the 
soul within it cease to brood and become active and pas- 
sionate. 

When Karl showed them the purse he had found, 
Emeline took it at once and opened all its compart- 
ments. 

“There is twentv dollars in bills and forty cents in 


102 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


silver,” she said. “That is luck for once. You can get 
me a decent winter jacket now.” 

She laid the purse on the table, and removing the coat 
she had worn for two and a half seasons, tossed it on a 
chair. 

Karl picked up the purse quickly, and showing her the 
name on the flap said, his eyes seeking hers appealingly : 
“ ’Ere is der name yet. It belongs to ’im.” 

Emeline glanced indifferently at the letters. 

“Mrs. Clara E. Storrs,” she read. “Well, what of it? 
There is no address given. You don’t have to hunt her 
up, do you? You couldn’t find her, anyway.” 

“Done it say vere she iss, nicht?” 

“No, it don’t.” 

Karl shook his head in disappointment. 

“I must find her,” he muttered in German. 

“Let me look,” said Thekla, coming close to him. He 
held out the purse to her. She put one arm about him, 
and while he held the purse open, she poked through its 
contents. In one of the pockets she found a small en- 
velope doubled up. It was addressed to Clara E. Storrs, 
— Washington Square, New York, N. Y. 

“Here it is,” she said, patting his shoulders and smil- 
ing into his eyes. “I know where it is.” 

“Well, I hope you’re glad of it,” exclaimed Emeline. 
“Everybody has money, it seems, but us. I won’t stand 
it. I’ll quit school and go to work in the pattern fac- 
tory. I’ll get me some decent clothes, somehow.” 

Neither Thekla nor Emeline recognised the name of 
Storrs. Had any one recalled the fact to them that Lou 
and Amy had once been children in school with them, they 


TO GET BACK HIS OWN 


103 


would have remembered them vaguely. Emeline had not 
altogether forgotten her experience at the Marcy Avenue 
Church, but the details were indistinct and confused. 
Emeline looked upon the purse only as another tantaliz- 
ing grimace of fortune. Karl saw in it only the grief 
of the one who had lost it. Thekla did not think of it 
at all. She felt the anxiety of her father and was glad 
because he could now return it as he wanted to. 

It was not his usual time for the monthly trip to New 
York, but he wished now to go over in the morning. He 
would deliver the purse, and buy his groceries at the 
same time. He spent the rest of the day and three 
hours before breakfast, Saturday, in his work-room, get- 
ting ready. 

At nine o’clock, he brought the four market baskets 
from the kitchen, and handing two of them to Thekla, 
started off with her for New York. They did not go by 
way of Twenty-third street ferry, although it was 
nearer, because they would have to pay for the ferry 
passage and that would cost them six cents. But 
they did not mind the long, slow walk to the Bridge, 
across it and up Broadway. They were happy to- 
gether. It took them three hours to reach Washington 
Square. 

This was a familiar place to them, because William 
Roeting, Karl’s cousin, kept a tailor shop on the south 
side of the Square, and it was their custom to call on 
him on their monthly trips. The house they were seek- 
ing was on the north side, an old-fashioned three-storey 
basement residence of brown stone. 

As they arrived at the foot of the steps leading up to 


104 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


the entrance the door opened, and Lou came out, fol- 
lowed by a young lawyer, one of her mother’s boarders. 

Lou and Thekla looked into each other’s eyes and 
smiled. There was no recognition, but in the casual 
glance they exchanged, something pleasant and com- 
panionable had been revealed to each. 

“Do you want to see some one?” asked Lou, as Thekla 
and her father waited for them to descend. 

“Does Mrs. Storrs live here?” asked Thekla. 

“Yes, I am her daughter. You will find her in.” 

Lou was half inclined to go back for a moment. 

“Perhaps she wants to get a place here,” she thought. 
“I would like to have her.” 

“Do you know if she lost a purse?” asked Thekla. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Lou, “have you found it? Where?” 

“On Lafayette avenue, Brooklyn.” 

“Well,” said Lou, turning about, “come in. She will 
be glad to get it. She was over there yesterday, calling, 
and never knew that she lost it until she got home.” 

They all entered the house together, and Lou sent the 
maid for her mother. A few moments later, Mrs. Storrs 
entered. She was dressed in mourning, was a little 
stouter than formerly, and an expression of settled resig- 
nation and sorrow had aged her countenance much more 
than six years should have done. 

“I am very grateful to you,” she said, smiling gra- 
ciously upon Karl as he handed her the purse, bowing 
clumsily. 

“Oh, yah,” he said. “You pet.” 

“He found it yesterday too late to return it then,” said 
Thekla. “He was afraid you would be anxious.” 


TO GET BACK HIS OWN 


10 5 


“I was,” confessed Mrs. Storrs gently. “I could not 
afford to lose it. Twenty dollars is a good deal to me 
now. I did not miss it until I got home, as I did not 
need money for anything until then. I wish,” she con- 
tinued, turning to Karl with a deprecating, sad little 
smile, “that I could divide this with you. If I were not 
so poor myself, I would do so gladly. How much ought 
I to give him, Mr. Adams?” 

“Oh,” interrupted Thekla, “he don’t want a cent. He 
wouldn’t take it, would you, Fahter?” 

She saw that he did not quite understand, and said 
quickly in German : 

“They want to pay jmu something for finding the 
purse.” 

“No, no,” he said to her, also in German, “I don’t want 
it. I am glad I found it for the lady.” He shook his 
head at Mrs. Storrs, and backed to the door. “It iss 
alright alretty,” he said. “Oh, yah, you pet.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Storrs with the alacrity of relief, 
“let me give you a quarter, anyway.” 

Thekla declined the quarter, but the pleasant manner 
of Mrs. Storrs, her pleasure in the restored mone}^, and 
the gratitude she expressed over and over, following 
them to the steps with it, was reward enough for them. 
They went away tingling with good-will and happiness. 

Karl and Thekla passed through Washington Square, 
along aisles of snow. The trees were sparkling in the 
sunlight, for every limb and twig was covered with a 
hood of white. The walk crackled merrily under their 
feet. The crisp air of the morning had bit at Thekla’s 
cheeks until they burned with the hot blood it had 


106 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


aroused. Her eyes sparkled as if they, too, were filled 
with snow and sunlight. They did not speak of the 
beauty through which they passed. All the long trudge 
over, through the glistening, white city, they had kept a 
happy silence. Half-way over Brooklyn Bridge they 
had stopped to look at the river, the widening harbour 
and gleaming world of buildings stretching below them. 
All the vast network of the bridge above was soft and 
white; the ferryboats, darting here and there like water- 
bugs far below, were flecked with patches of the snowy 
mantle; the ships, crowding the shores, lifted their tall 
masts and rigging for the archers of the sun. Now, as 
they crossed through the Square, Thekla, without a 
trouble in her heart, hummed a plaintive melody without 
knowing it. She caught the sound of sleigh bells, turned 
to watch a crowded Fifth avenue ’bus trundle past, 
laughed as a snowball knocked off a policeman’s helmet. 
Karl responded to her spirit in some measure, but he was 
never wholly free from anxious thoughts. The mo- 
mentary light in his eyes was always obscured by return- 
ing shadows. He would lift his head at a cheery sound, 
only to drop it again in apprehensive brooding. 

Karl had never told his cousin of the money he had 
lost. To-day he was determined to do so. He wanted 
to tell him of his fear concerning the future of his family 
and find out if there was any way now to secure them. 

William was a man of strong, well-defined views upon 
all subjects. When Karl took him into the front room 
after dinner and told him of his troubles, William 
listened with a pompous and patronizing sympathy. 
They talked together in German. 


TO GET BACK HIS OWN 


107 


“That was very bad for you,” said William. “You 
should have got your money out before the bank failed. 
What are you doing now?” 

Karl pondered for a moment. He wished he could 
tell this man just what he was doing. He could convert 
his work into enough to live on, but he did not know how 
to get his ten thousand dollars back. Perhaps William 
would help him, but fear and the caution born of long, 
ponderous deliberation kept his secret. 

“People sometimes get their lives insured, don’t they?” 
he asked, finally. 

“Certainly ; my wife would get five thousand dollars if 
I should die.” 

“That’s what I want,” said Karl, eagerly. “I want 
Katrina and the little ones to get that money I lost. 
How can I be insured for ten thousand dollars?” 

“You are over fifty-five,” said William, “and it would 
cost you a good deal.” 

“How much?” 

William did not know, but he would not confess his 
ignorance willingly. 

“About five hundred a year, I should say.” 

“Where do I go to get it done?” 

“You come over when you’re ready and I’ll take you 
down where I got mine. Have you some money to start 
with?” 

“I have saved fifteen dollars a month for six years. I 
have fourteen hundred dollars.” 

“That would almost pay for three years,” said Will- 
iam. He calculated for a few moments and added: “If 
you saved two hundred and fifty every year you could 


108 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


keep up jour payments for two years after that, and 
you would be safe then. They would help you along 
some way. And you might die in five years.” 

“Yes,” said Karl. He wanted to find out one more 
thing, but hardly knew how to ask about it. He pon- 
dered over the matter and then asked, without looking 
up: 

“If I should get run over or fall out of a window on 
the sidewalk and be killed, would they get the money?” 

“It don’t make any difference how you die. They 
would get it.” 

“Well,” said Karl, “I have been troubling about this 
a long time. I am glad you have told me so much. I 
will come over Monday and you will go with me.” 

He found Thekla helping Alice with the dishes. 

“Why don’t you put Emeline and Thekla to learning 
some business?” asked William. 

“Oh, yes,” answered Karl, vaguely, “I will do that 
some time.” 

“But you ought to do it now,” said William, with 
pompous insistence. “You are wrong to let them be idle. 
They will come to mischief that way.” 

“Is that so ?” asked Karl, greatly troubled by this new 
idea. 

“Of course it is so. Look at my family. I am better 
off than you are, Karl, and yet my children work.” 

“But Emeline and Thekla are in school yet.” 

“You keep them there too long. What good will it 
do them? They have learned all they will ever need. I 
took Herbert and Anna out and got them good jobs. 
.They are doing well now. They are not running the 


TO GET BACK HIS OWN 


109 


streets or getting into trouble. They can take care of 
themselves. You had better get your children to work 
before anything happens to you. If you left them 
money, they would spend it. They would run about and 
get into trouble.” 

Karl looked helplessly at his cousin, his whole face 
twitching with concern. 

“What shall I do, then?” he asked anxiously. “Can 
you help me, William?” 

“Well, perhaps I can,” said William, pleased to regu- 
late affairs. “Isaac Rosenthal hires a number of girls 
in his feather factory next door. I might get them jobs 
there. You could come over here and live.” 

This was a distressing thought to Karl. The little 
yellow house in Brooklyn was home to him. How could 
he give up his backyard and the* garden he had created? 
But William was one to insist on a plan he had conceived 
and urged the necessity of this thing. They talked for 
an hour, and when Karl left he had agreed to the change. 
He was so uncertain, so filled with dread of the future, 
so anxious for his children, he could no longer live in his 
little home in simple content, and he grasped at the con- 
trolling influence of his strong-willed, self-confident rela- 
tive as at a rope that had been thrown to him. He 
needed some one like this in his trouble. When he made 
his purchases and returned home with Thekla, he hurried 
with the excited haste of one running from a fearsome 
wilderness to a safe shelter in the distance. 

The moving was inexpressibly sad for him. It did not 
matter so much to Katrina, for she would still be with 
Karl, and that was all to her. When they came away, 


110 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


riding in the wagons that contained their things, Karl 
felt like a man adrift. Now that he had left the place 
where he and Katrina had unconsciously passed from 
youth to age, he felt that they were, in fact, old, and an 
increased sense of helplessness and foreboding oppressed 
him. 


CHAPTER X. 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE . 

W ASHINGTON SQUARE might be called the 
bulb of New York. The streets leading 
from it south penetrate like roots the sources 
of its life. Fifth avenue rises out of it like a strong, 
straight stalk, supporting the gorgeous flower. 

Below this Square is the toil and intrigue ; above it is 
the beauty and pleasure these produce. On the north 
side are the homes of wealthy, aristocratic, old families, 
many generations removed from the soil. Here stands 
an imposing stone arch, the entrance to the Square f rom 
Fifth avenue. Mrs. Storrs, venturing to turn one of 
these mansions into a boarding-house, would have been 
a presuming vandal but for her connection with the 
Vandemeres, which gave her caste. The air of great 
exclusiveness and respectability she maintained further 
redeemed her, and her establishment was tolerated by her 
neighbours. 

The Square is cut through the centre by a wide 
asphalt roadway, entering from Fifth avenue through 
the arch. In the centre is a huge fountain, its pond of 
water encircled by an elevated rim of soil, for a flower 

bed. The broad roadway running north and south, 
ill 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


m 

passing around this fountain on both sides, divides the 
square into two parks of green lawns, shaded by elm 
trees. 

Benches line in almost unbroken rows all the walks, 
and there are few places on them vacant, from early 
morning until late at night. Old men, respectable and 
tidy, but evidently of no social pretensions, bring their 
morning papers here to read and get the air and view the 
world. Sober workmen, temporarily out of work, and 
those who labor after sundown, are constantly coming 
and going, sitting here for an hour or so of rest and aim- 
lessness. Tattered wrecks of men lounge here day after 
day, dozing, watching the passers-by dully. Here and 
there among the benches you will always find talkative 
vagrants, critically reading newspapers others have dis- 
carded, discoursing to anyone who will listen of the 
events of the day, disposing of the problems of all times 
with a philosophy well-seasoned by wind and sun and 
weather. 

In the afternoons, calico-clad women begin to arrive. 
They nurse their babies at exposed breasts, and let their 
children run at large about them. In the evenings, whole 
families assemble here. Every hour of the day and 
night the square is filled with children of all ages, tum- 
bling over the benches, hanging about the fountains, 
romping in the roadway, in spite of the constant passing 
of ’buses, cabs, trucks and bicycles. Now and then a 
hurdy-gurdy stops in the neighbourhood, and instantly, 
as its melody bursts over and through the din of traffic, 
the square is filled with dancing children ; it becomes like 
a vast puppet show. 


113 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

There is only the width of two blocks between the sides 
of the square, but the social distance is immeasurable. 
On the south side stands a row of old brown-stone dwell- 
ing houses. These, also, were once homes of the exclu- 
sive. The lower portions are now used as shops. The 
upper floors are rented to whoever will pay for them. 

The block facing the west half of the square on the 
south side is largely occupied by the Judson Memorial 
Church and institution, built of yellow brick, a towering 
evidence of the neighbourhood’s poverty and ignorance. 
Next to it is a home for friendless girls. 

Between Thompson street and University place are two 
saloons, a number of dingy, ill-kept apartment houses, 
a bicycle store, a barber shop, a repair shop, a rag- 
picker’s basement, three artificial flower factories, and 
the establishments of William Roeting and Isaac Rosen- 
thal. 

For five months Emeline and Thekla had worked all 
day in the front part of the feather factory, leaning over 
a table with six other girls, curling feathers. When they 
left their seats at six o’clock their fingers were cramped 
and sore, and their backs ached. Emeline noticed, with a 
sullen resentment, that, in spite of all she could do with 
hot water and vaseline, her hands were becoming rough 
and discoloured. 

“I wish I could get out of this filthy hole,” she said 
one afternoon as they came from work. 

“I wish you could,” answered Thekla, sympathetically. 
“Why don’t you try to get into Altman’s? Anna is a 
cashier there now. Perhaps she could help you.” 

“It’s not much better there,” said Emeline, moodily. 


114 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“I don’t see why I should have to drudge and be common 
all my life. I’m going to do something to get out of it.” 

Emeline’s ambition was always a marvel to Thekla, 
who looked at her now in wondering admiration. 

“How can you?” she asked. 

“I’m going to the Judson Memorial sewing classes. 
They teach you how to do things and become somebody 
there.” 

Thekla, hearing the shouts of children in the square, 
looked wistfully in their direction. The sound of human 
voices, the sight of people at liberty and apparently 
happy, appealed to her always in the most direct and 
personal way. But she knew also that her mother needed 
her at this hour, and leaving Emeline at the corner, hur- 
ried home. 

Emeline, knowing that supper was not ready, passed 
around the square, looking now and then at the fine old 
houses, so staid and formal in appearance, and gazed 
longingly far into the distance up Fifth avenue. Re- 
turning, she stood before the institute, wondering what 
they would do for her in there. 

Thekla walked down Thompson street, turning into 
a little hallway, three doors from the corner. The five 
rooms Karl rented were above a shoemaker’s shop in a 
two-storey wooden house. The windows of their front 
room looked out upon the Judson Memorial. Four 
geraniums in pots were on the window sills. 

Thekla, as soon as she entered, drew four bills from 
her pocket and gave them to her father. Karl took them 
sorrowfully. It grieved him to think that his daughters 
should work so hard. William had warned him not to 


115 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

let them have their money to spend, saying constantly, 
“It is bad for girls to have money. You must make 
them give you all they earn.” 

Karl could not do this, but took what they offered him 
and saved it for them. 

“I made four dollars and twenty cents this week,” 
said Thekla, exceedingly pleased that she could hand 
over so much. “Emeline made almost six.” She knew 
that her sister was superior to her in all things, and was 
proud of her. She finished an ironing her mother had 
left partly done, moved the rack to one side, put the iron- 
ing board in its corner, pulled out the table to the centre 
of the room and spread the cloth, while Mrs. Fischer was 
making the vegetable stew for their dinner. 

When Emeline came in her mother said, hurrying to 
serve the stew, “It iss alretty, Emmie.” Emeline put 
her hat on the bureau, looked at herself critically in the 
mirror, fixed her hair judiciously and came to the table. 
Mrs. Fischer stood by her place, waiting anxiously until 
she was seated and had eaten some of the stew. Hearing 
no complaint, she took her own seat at the table with a 
sigh of weariness and content. 

During the meal Emeline gave her father two dollars. 
The remainder of her earnings she kept, adding it to the 
store she was accumulating. Since she had been earning 
money she had bought for herself a pretty spring hat, 
a trim, dark blue bicycle skirt of heavy goods, and a pair 
of bicycle boots. Besides these, she had bought some 
material for shirtwaists and summer dresses, which she 
would learn to make up. She had earned a little over one 
hundred dollars in five months. She had given a little 


116 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


over forty to her mother, had spent thirty, and had saved 
twenty-eight. She hoped to increase her fund to fifty 
dollars in the next four weeks, and with this she might be 
able to do something for herself. She could learn what 
the Judson Institute could teach her free of cost, but she 
wanted something more than that. She did not intend 
to work in a shop or behind a counter. 

As soon as her stew was finished, Emeline went across 
the street to the Institute and was admitted to one of 
the advanced sewing classes, for she was already capable 
with her needle. As she sat for an hour, eagerly follow- 
ing the instructions of the teacher, she was more con- 
tented than she had been for many years, since the 
realisation had come to her that there were many dif- 
ferent stations in life, and that hers was among the 
lowest. She had begun, with this first lesson in cutting 
and fitting, to move upward, and her gloomy, resentful 
brooding was replaced by a fever of impatience to pro- 
ceed. 

When Emeline left the table and went out, Thekla 
stood at the window and watched her step across the 
street. 

“She has gone into the Institute,” she said. “I hope 
she gets in there. I wish we could do something to help 
her, Fahter.” 

“I have saved some money for Emeline and you,” said 
Karl in German. “I have my life insured now. It will 
be all right sometime.” 

Thekla lighted his pipe for him, kissed the top of his 
head as she gave it to him, and leaving him to smoke 
and ponder, turned to her housework. 


117 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

A hurdy-gurdy on the corner, bursting suddenly into 
an irresistible melody, called her to the window. She 
sat upon the sill and watched the circle form. In this 
circle and down the street and over the square children 
were dancing. She remained there while the music lasted, 
absently rubbing her drying cloth over the dish she held, 
her foot tapping the floor, her body moving to the mel- 
ody, her glance following the crowds loitering along 
the streets or seated by the open doors of shops and tene- 
ments, or seeking the square, a portion of which she 
could see from her window seat. All that she saw and 
heard spoke to her of freedom and pleasure. It was 
evening now, and the world was at play. Nothing but 
delight lurked in the shadows for her. Her heart was 
beating with nameless anticipation and her eyes were 
bright. The light streaming from doors and windows 
across the sidewalk, the bands of darkness between, the 
bright pools under the arc lights of the street and 
square, the shadowy regions without these circles, gave 
the world she looked upon an aspect of uncertainty and 
mystery not less alluring to her because she lacked the 
artist’s appreciation. She hummed the melodies she 
heard and tapped her foot, pricking her ears to every 
sound and following with an eager, wistful glance every 
movement, far and near. When the dishes were done, 
and she had put the clothes to soak, she put on her pret- 
tiest things and went out. She called in to the shoemaker 
through his open window, she spoke to the Italian and his 
wife seated on the sidewalk in the light of their shop 
door, she laughed at the good-natured jolly thrown to 
her by a bartender standing in white apron and shirt- 


118 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


sleeves in the saloon-door on the corner, and crossing the 
street, she walked along the asphalt roadway through 
the square to the fountain. 

As the night falls, a curious sight may be seen in this 
square, as in all those regions inhabited by the poor of 
our day. Along all the dark streets the doors of tene- 
ments open, and out of them come girls, from twelve to 
twenty years old, dressed in well-fitting gowns of the 
prevailing shades and patterns. They wear becoming 
hats, bright with ribbons, chiffon and flowers. As they 
pass down the steps and along the street, holding their 
skirts from the filth, you will see new, neatly fitting 
shoes, a glimpse of a gay stocking, the ruffle of a bright, 
sateen petticoat, or the embroidery of a clean, stiff 
white one. The fathers of these girls, their shapeless 
clothes, their hands and faces covered with the grime of 
their labour in factory and sewer, or in the excavations 
for buildings, and their mothers, fat, slovenly, unclean, 
may loll in their dingy doorways or gather in groups 
to gossip near by, but these girls, clean, daintily attired, 
hurry eagerly away wherever there is light and merri- 
ment to be found. They are not dependent on any one, 
for they make their own living. Their days are spent in 
close contact with all that is rich and alluring in the 
world. They brush against women of fashion, even talk 
with them frequently about the goods between them and 
the best combinations of shades and material. They 
observe and imitate. They make their money go a long 
way, for they spend it all, and are resourceful. The 
girls of the department stores ape the great ladies ; the 
girls of the factory follow the department store girls. 


119 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

Since Thekla had been earning money she had given 
it all to her mother, except four dollars for a new spring 
hat, two dollars for a pair of shoes, and twelve dollars 
for a ready-made dress at Altman’s. Emeline had in- 
sisted on her getting these things, and Anna Roeting had 
induced the saleslady to have the dress especially altered 
and fitted to her. She. required nothing but her happy, 
generous nature, her inexhaustible vitality and fund of 
good spirits, her eagerness to do things and her skill in 
doing them, to keep a multitude of friendly companions 
about her. 

There were probably a hundred or more boys and 
girls living somewhere between the square and Bleecker 
street that Thekla knew by name, mingling freely with 
them all as occasion offered. The degree of intimacy 
possible between herself and others depended upon the 
others. She withheld nothing that anyone she liked de- 
sired. She liked anyone possessing a nature that made 
friendly relations possible. She was alike popular with 
boys and girls, but now, as in her earliest childhood, 
she was thoroughly contented only when busy with the 
boys. She never wondered why she liked to be with them. 
She was altogether thoughtless, a being of generous and 
affectionate impulses, incapable of resentment or re- 
sistance where malice and injury were not intended. In 
all her life she had not considered what might be for or 
against her own interest. She could fight with even those 
she liked in the cause of others when they were wronged 
or annoyed, but she had nothing to offer anyone on her 
own account but affection and good-will. 

The little group she was most often with was composed 


120 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


of five boys, beside her cousin Herbert, and two girls, be- 
side Emeline, her cousins Anna and Alice and herself. 
One of these girls, Maggie O’Connor, was the daughter 
of a nearby saloonkeeper; the other, Pauline Block, was 
the daughter of a Jewish rabbi living on Bleecker street. 

Dudley Rhodes, the oldest of the five boys, was twenty- 
one. He was part owner of the bicycle store facing the 
square, and was sufficiently conceited to take a sort of 
pride in his place. He liked to tinker a wheel and 
was fond of riding one. He mastered a number of clever 
tricks and occasionally performed them, with an air of 
indifference, on the wide asphalt roadway of the square. 
He was known in the neighbourhood as “the goat.” He 
dressed with considerable taste. A trim, black moustache 
accentuated the redness of his lips and the whiteness of 
his even teeth. 

Sam Brady, just past twenty, was the son of Michael 
Brady, foreman for a large firm of contractors. During 
the day Sam, dressed in flannel shirt, boots and overalls, 
helped his father, overseeing the work on one section of a 
sewer they were repairing, preparing the blasts required 
in excavating for a building, operating the drills, or 
even taking a hand at pick or shovel when a gang of 
Italians needed an example of industry. In the evening 
he scrubbed his hands with a brush, shampooed his head, 
put a gold stud in the bosom of his coloured shirt, and 
sallied forth to meet what amusement the night might 
bring him. He wore his hat a little to one side. His 
face was smooth-shaven and sandy hued. His twinkling 
gray eyes were rendered waggish by the droop of the 
eyelids at the outer corner. His ordinary greeting of 


m 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

“What fell, Bill,” was always effective because of the 
irresistible drollery of his voice and face. Everyone 
called him Pat. 

Max Shultz, just entering his twentieth year, was the 
son of a meat dealer on Fourth street, near West Broad- 
way. He worked in his father’s shop. During the 
amusement season he was usher in the Grand Opera 
House. Because of this he was sometimes referred to as 
the seat-slammer, but he was more commonly called 
Butch. His face was round and rosy, his lips very full. 
His brown eyes, pleasant and ingratiating, were fre- 
quently softened by a singular dreaminess. He pos- 
sessed a sweet tenor voice and was able, on occasions, to 
entertain his companions for a summer’s evening with the 
songs he had heard at the theatre. He made a good deal 
of money during the winter in tips and the sale of libret- 
tos, which he smuggled in and substituted for those of 
the various companies at the house. 

Israel Bernstein was the son of a Jew who sold sus- 
penders and collar buttons from a pushcart, located by 
the curbing in the vicinity of Bleecker street and West 
Broadway. Israel had sold newspapers and blacked 
boots from his fifth to his fourteenth year. 

He was now nineteen years old and the proprietor of 
a very pretentious establishment built of boards along 
the side of a building on University place, near Wash- 
ington Square. 

He did not talk or act like a Hebrew, and scarcely 
looked like one. His manner was frank and assured. 
He looked at the huge buildings of pressed brick and 
granite and gleaming plate-glass windows, recently 


122 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


erected on University place, and believed implicitly that 
he would some day own buildings like them. When he 
locked up his place and went out for the night, he was 
through with business and ambition and his own affairs, 
ready to join in any sport and to pay his share. 

Tom Earny was the son of a compositor employed by 
the Journal. 

He worked in the shipping department of the Amer- 
ican Book Company, packing books. He was short, but 
of a fine, sturdy build, with the firm neck, the lithe, trim 
body and strong, quick limbs of the lightweight athlete. 
He was proud of his business, and expected some day to 
be at the head of a book concern of his own, unless he 
should desire to enter the prize ring. He was at present 
too deeply engrossed in the world of sport to pay much 
attention to literature. With the aid of his father he 
had secured the privilege of sponging off the bulletin 
board outside the Journal office. On ordinary nights he 
let this job to one of his acquaintances, but when there 
was a big prize fight on he mounted the platform himself 
and officiated before the vast crowds gathered to see, 
w ith all the dignity and poise that so conspicuous a part 
in so great an affair demanded. He was known among 
the sports sufficiently well to be admitted now and then 
to the training quarters. On one occasion he had been 
knocked dowm by Sullivan. On another he had rubbed 
the great man’s leg with a towel. He knew exactly 
how these gladiators trained, and when one of his favour- 
ites w r as preparing for a fight he followed a daily pro- 
gramme as nearly identical as possible. Because of his 
knowledge in these matters he had a great following of 


123 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

admirers. Thekla was among the most devoted of these. 
He was known to thousands of people who gathered be- 
fore the bulletin boards as the “sponger,” but he was 
called plain Tom by his intimates, for it was a friendly 
name. 

These twelve boys and girls are fair representatives of 
the children of the people, now coming to maturity. You 
will see them pouring in vast armies from shops and of- 
fices, from stores and factories — boys and girls, in one 
pushing, hurrying mass, when, between five and seven 
o’clock, New York goes home. For two hours the streets 
are flooded with them, the ferries overflow with them. 
They march in thousands across the Brooklyn Bridge. 
Elevated trains and surface cars packed to bursting, 
almost touching each other in their close succession, rush 
them up beyond Forty-second street and into Harlem, 
distribute them all over the lower portion of Long 
Island, and scatter them like clouds of insects, swept by 
a hurricane, over Staten Island and New Jersey. Thou- 
sands upon thousands of them crowd the sidewalks, going 
on foot up Park avenue, Third avenue, the Bowery, 
Fourth avenue, Broadway, West Broadway, Sixth, 
Seventh, Eighth and Ninth avenues, finding their homes 
over all the region south of Forty-second street, between 
the North and East rivers. 

These are the girls in gay ribbons and bright-coloured 
summer dresses, or natty bicycle costumes ; and these, the 
sturdy, clear-eyed young fellows, who fill the parks on 
Sunday, forming into dense crowds about the concert 
stands; who pack the pleasure-boats and swarm along 
all the country roads on their wheels ; who give life to the 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


124 

multitude of road-houses for twenty miles around Man- 
hattan, in all directions ; who throng the resorts of the 
Sound, the Bay and sea. On holidays, Saturday after- 
noons, and Sundays, and every night in summer, the 
beach, for two miles below the Oriental Hotel, is black 
with them. 

As Thekla walked toward the fountain, the Goat rode 
swiftly into the square and made a short circuit about 
her. Pie stood with one foot on the pedal, one hand grip- 
ping the handle-bar, and the other the saddle, over which 
he vaulted to the opposite pedal, f rom side to side. 

“Here, Thekla,” he said, “you mount the wheel 
when I leave it. Don’t let it fall, now. Catch it and 
jump on.” 

“What do you take me for?” said Thekla. 

“Come on, be decent.” 

“With this dress on?” 

“Take it off.” 

“Aw, go on, you lobster.” 

“We’re going to Coney to-morrow.” 

“Who’s going?” 

“The push.” 

“Do I get a wheel ?” 

“Sure.” 

“And Emma?” 

“Go fly a kite.” 

“Take her on your tandem, Dud.” 

“Yes, I will, nit.” 

“All right. I’ll get Tom to.” 

“Maggie goes with me. We’ll set the pace all right.” 

Thekla found Tom and Pat and Butch leaning against 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 125 

the rim of the fountain. As she came to them Butch took 
her arm and drew her in between himself and Pat. 

“Have a cigarette ?” 

“What do you smoke ’em for, Butch? Look at your 
fingers.” 

“He’s got a friend in the stiff business,” said Pat. 

“Why don’t you take to a pipe?” asked Thekla. 

“All right,” said Butch, slipping his hand in Pat’s 
coat and bringing out a short briar. 

“Have some tobacco?” asked Pat, turning around and 
offering the other pocket. “Don’t let me be selfish.” 

Butch put the pipe back and lit a fresh cigarette. 

“You’re a d — d fool,” said Tom, with a quick glance 
of disapproval. 

“Go chase yourself,” said Butch, without looking 
around. 

This was the first concert night of the season. A 
dense crowd stood about the bandstand. All the benches 
of the west half were filled. Bareheaded mothers, with 
their babies, and tired workmen were seated here and 
there on the ground, under the trees. The walks were 
packed with young people moving slowly up and down, 
meeting and separating, forming groups, laughing, 
glancing, now and then pushing or nudging one another. 
Hundreds of children romped about the fountain and 
over the broad roadway. The Fifth avenue ’buses 
rumbled in and out, the seats on top filled with sight- 
seers. 

Presently the plaintive note of wind instruments stole 
out of the shadows, and the great throng of people be- 
came instantly silent. The band played a selection from 


126 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

the “Bohemian Girl.” As the melody filled the square, 
a low, harmonious humming was heard, as voices here 
and there followed the familiar tune. 

Pat and Tom and Butch and Thekla settled back 
against the fountain. Thekla unconsciously leaned a 
little against Pat, and her head, falling to one side, 
touched his shoulder. He closed his hand over the edge 
of the fountain that his arm might support her. 

Butch, looking over the crowds and into the shadowy 
treetops, began to sing. His voice was clear and sweet, 
but he had scarcely begun when it broke, and his song 
ended in a cough. 

“There you go,” said Tom ; “getting a fine bunch of 
rattles in your lungs.” 

Pat reached over and knocked his cigarette from his 
fingers. 

“What did you do that for?” cried Butch. 

“Oh, go on,” said Pat, indifferently. “Tune up 
again.” 

Butch began the song again, and Thekla hummed it 
with him. 

When the band ceased the crowds moved, and the con- 
fusion of voices was resumed. 

“Tom,” said Thekla, going over beside him, “take 
Emma on your tandem to-morrow.” 

“Come off,” exclaimed Tom, promptly; “what do I 
want to push her for? I’ll take you. We’ll show Dud 
and Maggie they’re not so much.” 

You won’t take me. Emma don’t like to ride alone. 
Here she comes, Tom. Now, you take her.” 

As Emeline joined them, still flushed with her inter- 


127 


VOICES OF THE SQUARE 

esting pursuit, her eyes dark and glowing, she was more 
attractive than usual, and Tom found it suddenly pos- 
sible to ask her to come. 

“Yes,” said Emeline. “I’d as soon go on a tandem. 
It’s too far to ride alone.” 

“All right,” said Tom. “Bring your muscle with you. 
I want to teach the Goat a new trick.” 

Not far away Dudley and Maggie were together. 

“They won’t see us again,” said Maggie, “after we 
get on Bedford avenue.” 

“Not if he is saddled with Emma, that’s sure.” 

“Or Thekla, either.” 

“Thekla can push a wheel, you know.” 

“Well, what about me, Johnnie?” 

“Oh, you’re all right.” 

“Well, I guess so,” said the girl, with a toss of the 
head. “I’d like to see anyone beat me.” 

The concert lasted until nine o’clock. When it was 
over the crowd scattered over both halves of the square 
and gradually melted away, passing out and home, along 
the streets leading south and west. By ten o’clock only 
a few people remained on the benches. The children had 
gone. Boys and girls, in pairs and groups, and now 
and then a young man and woman, strolled through. 
The officer of the beat walked past the benches, casting 
a side glance at those who remained. If he found some 
one asleep, he woke him up, saying : 

“Come now, it’s after ten. It’s not too hot for you to 
be inside to-night.” 

By eleven o’clock the square was deserted, except for 
a man and his wife, or a young fellow and his girl, who, 


128 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


sitting quietly and seeming respectable enough, were not 
disturbed by the policeman. Only a light here and there 
shone from the windows of the surrounding buildings. 
On the south side there was some life in the street, and 
people still sat on their steps. The street facing the 
north side was dark and quiet. All the shutters were 
closed. The houses looked like sealed tombs. At twelve 
o’clock the door of the Storrs’ house was cautiously 
opened and Lou slipped out, closing it behind her noise- 
lessly. She went down the steps on her toes and hurried 
up the street to the corner. Here she was met by Mr. 
Adams. They crossed over to the square and seated 
themselves on a bench shaded by a tree in front, and a 
thick clump of bushes behind. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND. 

S UNDAY morning at half-past eight the twelve had 
gathered at Dudley’s bicycle store. Tom was 
plugging a puncture in the front wheel of his 
tandem. Pat Brady leaned against a bench by the wall, 
puffing at his pipe and discussing the relative merits of 
lamps, tires and cement, with Tom and Thekla. Pauline 
Block and Emeline stood near Dudley, talking of shirt- 
waists and bicycle skirts. 

“Why don’t you girls wear bloomers?” asked Dudley. 
“We do,” said Pauline. 

“I mean just bloomers and no skirts. I have seen 
several lately.” 

“I think they are horrid,” said Emeline. “These 
divided skirts are just as good and much more decent.” 

She looked at her own complacently. She was in a 
very comfortable mood this morning. The boys, in 
jackets and knickerbockers trimmed with wide braid; 
the girls in Tam O’Shanters, clean, bright shirtwaists, 
and tailor-made short skirts, were very satisfactory to 
her. No one who saw her that day would suspect that 
she worked in a feather factory and lived over a shoe- 
maker’s on Thompson street. 

129 


130 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Thekk was the least creditable in her appearance, but 
no one exv.ipt Emeline thought *of that. She wore a 
divided skirt made over from a brown dress she had out- 
grown. She rode a diamond-frame wheel, and when 
mounted on this there was so much energy and ease in her 
poise, her face, bending over the handle-bars, was so 
flushed and alert, that to see her was to receive a tonic 
of health and joy. 

Emeline with Tom, and Maggie with Dudley, rode 
first on tandems, the rest followed on single wheels. 
They passed at a moderate speed to the ferry. A boat 
was just coming in. The ropes were thrown, the loud 
metallic sound of the clamps clicking over the cogs rang 
out as the windlass wheels flew round. The plank was 
slid over the boat’s end, the gates were opened, and they 
hurried along through the centre, stacking their wheels 
near the chain at the front end. 

“It will be a scorcher all right by noon,” said Dudley. 

“The water will feel good when we get there.” 

“You can bet on that.” 

They felt their tires, tightened the clamps of the 
lamps, and packed the rags about the tools in their 
leather cases so they would not rattle so much. 

“My seat is too low,” said Emeline. She thought a 
girl looked nicer on a wheel if her legs straightened and 
her toes rested lightly on the pedal as they pushed down. 

Tom got out his wrench again and raised the seat half 
an inch. 

“That right?” he asked. 

“Let me try.” 

He held the wheel while she mounted. 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 131 


“Push the pedal ’way down,” she said. He moved 
her forward a little. 

The ball of her left foot just reached the pedal com- 
fortably. She looked down at her foot and noticed the 
hang of her skirt and the suggestion of a graceful leg 
under it, and smiling contentedly, hopped down. 

“That’s better,” she said, brushing a bit of dust from 
herself and adjusting her Tam O’Shanter. Her eye was 
caught by a glimpse of Pauline’s bloomers as she was 
lifting her skirt to examine the binding. 

“They are silk,” she said to herself. “I’ll have me 
some like them.” 

The boat was gliding swiftly down the river. On the 
right were gas tanks, lumber and coal docks, and solid 
blocks of low buildings, with the picturesque, uneven sky- 
line of Fifth avenue and Broadway far behind them. 

On the Long Island shore were the low chimneys and 
sprawling groups of factories. On both sides the shore 
was fringed at its edge by ferry slips and houses. The 
great sweeping arch of the Brooklyn Bridge, at first like 
a pale blue band of mist in the distance, vaguely out- 
lined against the clear, June sky, grew rapidly larger 
until the ropes no longer formed a blur, and the eye 
could follow the cars back and forth over it. A cool 
breeze swept the river. The sky was clear and a blaze of 
sunlight sparkled on the water, cast a trembling, trans- 
parent film over distant buildings, flashed from the win- 
dows of ferryboats, and made strong contrasts of light 
and shade on the sails of little pleasure yachts and 
heavily laden ships passing to and from the ocean and 
the Sound. The boat was crowded at the front, and 


132 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


children held in their fathers’ arms were pointing and 
exclaiming and questioning concerning the ships and 
the gulls. Except by the children, little was said by any- 
one during the twenty minutes’ ride. People stood si- 
lently, close together, looking idly at the shore, the 
sparkling water, the boats, or watching the looming 
bridge or gazing dreamily beneath its arch far down the 
bay past Governor’s Island and out to the sea they knew 
spread beyond. 

The boat turned into the Broadway slip on the Brook- 
lyn side and was made fast with the same ringing song 
of the windlass, and the crowd pushed off, forgetting in 
a moment all of the shining way through which they 
had just passed. 

There was no effort made to pass Tom and Emeline 
here because it would be necessary to jolt over the rough 
stone pavement. Tom knew this, and kept an easy pace. 
In front of them was a long line of wheelmen, moving in 
single file until they turned off the path into Berry 
street, paved with asphalt. Here the line was broken, 
each rider taking the speed he chose. As Tom turned 
the corner he bent over his handle-bars and pushed hard 
on his pedals, saying to Emeline, who rode in front: 

“Pump up, Emma. Don’t let them pass us.” 

Emeline,. who had been riding so far without an effort, 
exerted herself, and the tandem shot ahead, passing 
many loiterers. They turned up a short block and came 
to the fountain standing at the head of Bedford avenue, 
the great, broad thoroughfare running through Brook- 
lyn. As they turned down this with a rush, the Sunday 
morning chimes pealed from a church near by, and from 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 133 


far and near came the sound of other bells. Emeline 
straightened up to look about her and listen. Rows of 
fine houses enclosed the avenue, and along the walks 
passed men in silk hats and Prince Albert coats, with 
their ladies in summer silks. How sedately and with 
what an air of easy superiority these people moved ! The 
men so straight and elegant and composed; the women 
so brightly adorned, holding their skirts so daintily in 
their gloved hands, stepping with such grace and assur- 
ance. There were a great number of little girls, dressed 
as gorgeously as the fancy dolls in the Christmas win- 
dows, holding little silk parasols that shimmered in the 
sun. The chiming bells, the peaceful Sabbath morning, 
the broad avenue with its exclusive houses, the elegance 
of the people who turned their eyes calmly upon her as 
she wheeled past, filled her with curious exaltation and 
the dull ache of vague, impossible desires. She looked 
down at herself to be sure again that she made as grace- 
ful an appearance as she thought she did. 

This part of the avenue is a long hill, down which 
they were now going, and it was only necessary for 
Emeline to keep her feet on the pedals. When they 
reached the bottom and passed the turn in the avenue, 
the up-grade began. Tom, owing to the impetus of the 
descent, was able to keep a fine speed for a block or so, 
by heroic exertions. Emeline did not seem to notice the 
change. She still kept her toes on the pedals, grace- 
fully arching her feet as they rose and fell, and main- 
taining her effective, easy poise. 

The sweat began to beat Tom’s forehead. He heard 
the soft, swift, brushing sound of the rubber tires on the 


134 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


asphalt coming rapidly up behind him. He saw a wheel 
creeping into view at his left. He glanced covertly from 
the corner of his eye, and saw Maggie bending over the 
handle-bars and pumping with strong, quick strides. 
He bent doggedly to his work, a feeling of disgust and 
wrath growing in him for the girl posing in front of 
him. Suddenly Maggie and Dudley leaned far over and 
shot past them with a few strong pushes. Tom straight- 
ened up, and, with a savage exclamation, stopped the 
tandem and jumped off. 

“Get down,” he said to Emeline. 

She obeyed, wondering what had happened. 

“Anything broke?” asked Thekla, riding up and dis- 
mounting. 

“Get on in front here, Thekla,” commanded Tom. 
“Give Emma your wheel.” 

“She’ll do no such thing,” said Emeline, with a blaze 
of resentment. 

“Well, you don’t mount with me again. This ride 
wasn’t planned to show your shape. Get on here, 
Thekla.” 

Emeline, cut to the heart by this contemptuous ref- 
erence to her airs and graces, turned away, saying with 
what she intended for a crushing glance: 

“I would not ride with you. Give me the wheel, 
Thekla.” 

“Hurry up, Thekla,” said Tom. “Look where they 
are, will you?” 

Thekla glanced up the avenue and saw the other tan- 
dem two blocks away. 

“Never mind him, Emmie,” she said. “He’s a brute.” 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 135 


She jumped on her mount in front of Tom, and calling 
over her shoulder, “We’ll wait for you,” gripped the 
handle-bars firmly, bent her head far over them, and dug 
at the pedals with her toes. A great, fierce joy filled 
Tom’s heart as the tandem shot steadily ahead, with an 
even, increasing swiftness. 

“We’ll show ’em,” he said, shutting his jaw with a 
snap, and bending to his work. They pumped swiftly 
in grim silence, every nerve and muscle, every faculty 
of the mind bent on speed. They seemed to lift the wheel 
up and onward with their arms and shoulders ; they 
drove it irresistibly with their strong legs. The faint, 
even singing of the chain and bearings, the brisk re- 
sistance of the atmosphere through which they cut, filled 
them with an indescribable exhilaration. The sweat 
bathed their faces, dripped from their chins and ran in 
little streams down their bodies. They felt the first hard 
tug and sense of weariness, then the strain passed ; they 
breathed with ease through their noses, their mouths 
firmly shut. They had settled into a steady, terrific pace 
they could keep. Their whole beings tingled with the 
joy of health, excitement and activity. Dudley and 
Maggie, sure of easily leaving the others out of sight 
behind them, were not putting forth all their power. 
Their lead had been reduced to half a block when Dudley, 
glancing under his arm behind him, discovered the 
change. 

“Maggie,” he cried, “get to going there. Tom has 
Thekla on. They’re right behind.” 

In a moment they had doubled their speed and the 
two tandems sung and hummed up the avenue, keeping 


136 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


an almost unvarying distance between them. Bed- 
ford avenue rises at the southern end in a steep hill, 
at the top of which it joins the Eastern Parkway. 
On this important comer stands the first of the 
road-houses that line the way between the city and the 
ocean. 

Dudley and Maggie cast a longing glance at this cool 
haven, but if they stopped and Tom and Thekla did not, 
they would be left behind for good. Once on the top of 
the hill they turned into the cinder path that runs with 
the Boulevard and shot along it like the wind. Tom and 
Thekla were now close at their heels. 

A steady flow of cyclists passed into this path, turn- 
ing into it from the Boulevard and Bedford avenue. 
Dudley and Maggie passed in front of a crowd moving 
more slowly. Thekla saw that they were too late to fol- 
low. With a quick swerve they passed around and up 
the narrow strip of sod between the path and the curb- 
ing of the driveway. Bumping over holes and hummocks 
and a litter of sticks and stones, just escaping collision 
with the trees, they passed the blockading crowd and 
dashed into the path again, thirty feet behind the other 
tandem humming ahead, close to the outer edge of the 
path, where an open way is usually left for speedy 
riders. Thekla kept the bell clamouring and Tom called, 
“Steady there, steady,” in an even, penetrating voice, so 
that none of the more easy-going cyclists would close up 
their way. Three blocks further on both tandems left 
the path, sped across the driveway and along a short 
block that brought them into Washington avenue, which, 
at this point, forms a steep hill. Down this they rushed, 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 137 

the wind whistling past them, their tires throwing out a 
sound from the brick pavement like the distant rolling 
of a snare drum. The hill was black with wheelmen, 
but the wild clamour of their bells, and the rushing sound 
of their approach kept a way clear for them. At the 
foot of the hill the tandems turned into a path, splashing 
through mud puddles and making a short digression 
over the grass. When they reached Flatbush avenue Dud- 
ley and Maggie, twenty feet ahead, passed between two 
trolley cars coming toward each other on parallel tracks. 
Tom and Thekla saw this space rapidly closing, but cal- 
culating their chances to the fraction of an inch, fol- 
lowed with a mighty spurt. They cleared the front of 
the first car by two feet, but the man-catcher of the 
second one hit their hind wheel. They would have been 
sent sprawling under the wheels of a carriage had not 
their speed saved them. Righted by their own momen- 
tum, they dodged past the howling policeman at the park 
entrance and turned the first curve in the driveway less 
than ten feet behind the others. It was now a compara- 
tively free run along a wide macadam road as smooth as 
a floor, uphill and down, under the cool shade of forest 
trees, winding past broad green meadows, gorgeous 
flower gardens, sheltered pavilions, or skirting the shore 
of a little lake. As Thekla came abreast of Maggie, 
Dudley managed to pant “The fountain?” Tom nodded. 
Side by side they dashed down the last hill and turned 
into the open space at the far corner of the park. Dis- 
mounting at the fountain, they dipped their hands in its 
overflow and washed their burning faces. The water 
that bubbles up and oozes out of the little mouth-cups 


138 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


around the rim of this basin comes from a spring and is 
ice-cold at all times of the year. 

Tom and Dudley ran their tandems into stalls, and 
the four, throwing themselves on a bench, stretched out 
and fanned themselves with portions of a newspaper. 

“That was great.” 

“Wish we were at the beach.” 

“I’d like a plunge now.” 

“Wonder how far back the push is.” 

“Say, Dud, I’ve a new feeding-place at Coney.” 

“Look at our friend, the fat one. He’s a good ad. for 
his wheel.” 

They sprawled on the bench, fanned themselves, talked 
at random, and looked idly and happily about them for 
over half an hour, then the other four turned in from the 
outside path, and stalling their wheels, went for a drink 
at the fountain. 

Tom had forgotten his treatment of Emelin e, or, at 
least, gave but a passing thought to it. Emeline had 
not. After the first gust of anger, she had tried to dis- 
miss the matter from her thoughts. 

“He is a rowdy,” she told herself. “He is beneath my 
notice. These people are not the kind I care for. They 
are rough and vulgar and don’t know what refinement 
means.” She could not satisfy herself with this reason- 
ing. The fact was, Emeline had begun to realise the use 
of boys. She found that if she wished to get away from 
her home or its neighbourhood, if she was to have any 
amusement or enjoy any excitement without paying for 
it herself, she must rely on such boys as came her way. 
Those she had met in the square might be very crude 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 139 


and feeble, but they were the best her miserable f ate had 
brought her, and she must use them, or stagnate. As 
soon as she realised this, her wit told her that if she 
wished the boys to attend her she must be attractive to 
them. She told herself that she would not knuckle to 
them as did Thekla, that she would not let them handle 
her, nor would she put herself out to please them. Her 
instinct informed her that were she beautiful enough, 
she could be as indifferent as she pleased and still com- 
mand what service she required. She, therefore, longed 
to be beautiful, and realised with a growing wonder and 
a suppressed passion of pride that she was becoming so 
from month to month. But she was not deceived into be- 
lieving that her beauty was irresistible, and she was will- 
ing to be comfortably amiable to the boys when she 
needed them. Tom’s sudden slur at her attitude, and 
his dismissal of her, wounded her vanity horribly. 

As she rode into the park and went to drink at the 
fountain, she was more beautiful than she had ever been, 
for her eyes were very bright and her gypsy-hued coun- 
tenance, with its long oval contour, was tinged with an 
unusual colour. 

As Dudley glanced at her casually, he thought she 
was very good looking, and was at once surprised that 
he thought so, for he had not noticed the fact before. 
He looked at her again as they mounted and passed out 
of the park. This time a faint glint of desire coloured 
his eyes, and his glance roamed observantly over her 
body. 

“She rides very well,” he thought. 

There could be no more racing, for as the twelve 


140 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


crossed the broad plaza and entered the cycle path they 
became a part of a steadily moving throng, pouring into 
it from all directions and filling it from edge to edge. 
For six miles, therefore, they all rode together, over the 
packed cinders that cracked under the countless wheels 
like frosty boards on a winter night. Tall elm trees 
locked their leafy branches over them. A breeze, with 
a flavour of salt in it, came to them over the meadows 
from the sea. Dog-carts, coaches, and open carriages 
filled the driveway, on the other side of which was a 
smaller stream of wheelmen coming back. By evening 
the two tides would be of a more equal strength. 

An estimate has never been made of the number of 
wheelmen passing along the path on a Sunday, but f rom 
early spring until late in the fall it is filled with them, 
even in these times when the wheel is no longer a craze. 
Their patronage has lined the path with flourishing re- 
sorts, and completely changed the material appearance 
and moral nature of the seashore, making even of Coney 
Island a place where the most discreet may go. 

As the twelve left the cycle path and turned down Surf 
avenue, the wide, open beach at their left was thronged 
with bathers. 

There was a strong wind blowing from the sea. The 
tide was coming in. They took deep breaths of the salt 
air, gazed eagerly at the water, their desire kindled by 
the merry voices of the multitude and the familiar chal- 
lenge of the surf. They pushed on rapidly until they 
came to the first long bathing pavilion, running from the 
avenue to the water. The front of this is a stable for 
wheels, where they checked their own, and joined the 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 141 

hurrying crowds pushing through the building toward 
the office. Here they left the contents of their pockets, 
were given bathing suits and keys to their dressing- 
rooms. Ten minutes later the boys, with Thekla and 
Maggie, ran down the sand, leaped over a huge billow 
just rolling in and plunged headlong into the water. 

Neither Thekla nor Maggie wore stockings or caps 
for their hair. Their bare legs and shoulders were dark 
and of as fixed a red as those of the boys. They swam 
far out beyond the ropes, assisted in catching a raft, 
which had broken f rom its mooring and was drifting out, 
and took their turns in diving from it. 

Pauline and Emeline, with Anna and Alice, appeared 
some fifteen minutes later, and came leisurely down the 
sand and sat in the surf. Anna and Alice ventured a 
little way out, holding to the ropes, laughing and scream- 
ing as the waves lifted them from their feet, and casting 
frequent glances at the boys, in order to see if they were 
noticed. Pauline and Emeline, after a few moments in 
the water, came out and walked, hand-in-hand, along the 
beach, to dry and warm themselves in the sand, to look 
critically at others, and to show their own pretty forms. 

Finding a clear patch of sand, near a group of young 
fellows, they stretched themselves out gracefully upon 
it, turning their backs towards the boys. 

Emeline, in the midst of this great throng of people, 
became rapidly oppressed with the spirit of brooding 
melancholy most familiar to her. The grandeur of the 
gleaming sea before her, the serenity of the almost cloud- 
less sky, the warmth and brightness of the sunlight, and, 
most of all, the merriment of those about her, brought 


142 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


neither comfort nor joy nor hope to her. The feeling 
of exhilaration with which she had begun the day passed, 
and forgetting that she had hoped that no one would 
suspect her own poverty and commonplace connections, 
assumed without question that all these people about her 
were among those favoured of fortune, happy now be- 
cause possessed of all the things she herself desired. 
The world had given her nothing. It did not know who 
she was. 

For over an hour Thekla and the others splashed 
about the raft, climbing upon it and throwing each other 
off, until a consuming hunger drove them in. 

Clear of the surf they formed a line, playing leap- 
frog to the door of the pavilion. The other four girls 
were already dressed and waiting for them. 

They washed each other off with the hose. The boys, 
whooping and halloing, followed the girls to their dress- 
ing-rooms and received the doors smartly in their faces. 

“Now,” said Tom, as they walked out upon Surf 
avenue, “I will show you my new feeding-place. It’s 
great !” 

Several times during the afternoon Dudley found 
occasion to make himself agreeable to Emeline, dancing 
with her at the halls they visited, or walking by her side 
as they went from place to place. Emeline began to 
notice these attentions and to find an interest in them. 
She looked at him f rom time to time out of the corner of 
her eyes, and frequently discovered his more open inspec- 
tion of her. She became conscious of a growing covet- 
ousness in his glances and mistook it for admiration. 
She was both flattered and aroused by this. She felt a 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 143 

sense of power within herself she had not known before. 
She began to experiment, to study her companion, to try 
what graces she possessed on him and to invent new ones 
under the inspiration of her success. She wondered how 
great an influence she could exert, if she could get him 
completely under her control, make a slave of him, see 
him following her humbly about, giving him nothing 
but the privilege of serving her. 

She had read of such things in the romances, and she 
had begun now to feel something of this power. Sud- 
denly it occurred to her that she might, at least, induce 
him to give her the f ront seat on his tandem going home, 
and she began at once to work for this end. 

This new mood seemed to have awakened a multitude of 
dormant instincts that now prompted her with their coun- 
sel. Under their direction she brushed lightly against 
him as they walked, occasionally met his eyes with a 
quick, full glance, turning away afterwards with a smile 
of mysterious import. 

Dudley was the only one of the crowd who noticed 
these things. There was more of the ulterior in his own 
nature. He was not so frank or boisterous as the other 
boys, and was more designing. He had looked upon the 
world with more discrimination than they, and possessed 
enough desire to make him somewhat cynical. He fre- 
quently assumed a superior pose and sought to bear him- 
self with some reserve of manner. 

As he observed Emeline this afternoon, his surprise 
and’ interest increased. When she touched him his body 
tingled. There were times when her eyes, flashing a 
sudden glance into his, made him hold his breath. In 


144 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


the twilight, as they were going toward the shed for 
their wheels, Emeline said in a general way : 

“I don’t want to ride back alone. I said I’d come on 
a tandem.” 

“Oh, I’ll push you back,” said Tom, resignedly. 
“There’s no hurry going home.” 

“I’ll let you have Maggie,” said Dudley. “We’ll 
change about if you want to.” 

Tom brightened considerably. “Is it a go, Mag ?” 

“Sure.” 

This incident was of slight importance to the others, 
but for Emeline it was a victory. She was elated, and as 
she wheeled up Surf avenue and into the path on the 
front seat of Dudley’s tandem, she was happier and more 
animated than she had ever been. She and Dudley 
gradually fell behind the others. 

“Are we going fast enough?” she asked. 

“There’s no hurry,” he replied. “Let them go on 
ahead. We’ll take it easy.” 

There was something in his voice that suggested the 
possibility of adventure. She felt that he wished to drop 
behind and be alone with her. There were many things 
that she had long wished to do. One of these was to eat 
at Minden’s, a fashionable road-house half-way down 
the cycle path. 

She knew, of course, that anyone decently dressed and 
having the price could go there, but none of her crowd 
had ever been. 

Why should they put up their good money just to sit 
next to the swell Johnnies? Perhaps she could get Dud- 
ley to take her there. She imagined herself at a table by 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 145 


a window, in the midst of fashionable people, a waiter 
bowing and rubbing his hands near them, and Dudley 
spending a good deal of money for her delight. She 
looked down the extending boulevard as down a shining 
avenue leading from her ugly past to the beautiful, im- 
possible realm of her bitter dreams. 

The way before her might well have fostered such an 
illusion. A soft, clear twilight was falling. The sun 
hung, a crimson and orange globe, just about the hori- 
zon. A golden light came slanting through the trees, 
falling in bars between the trunks across the cycle paths 
and the driveway in between, and falling in little patches 
through the bower of leaves. The long line of wheelmen 
extended before her, striped by the light and shadow 
through which it passed, and disappeared in the dis- 
tance in a mist like copper dust. 

As the day waned, the wide circles under the arc- 
lights began to appear, the windows and porches of the 
pavilions and road-houses shone brighter and brighter, 
distant street lamps gleamed like rows of stars along 
the roads crossing the fields, a myriad of round eyes 
moved steadily along the opposite cycle path, and above 
the low, monotonous crackling of the cinders under- 
wheel, came the sound of orchestras, faint at first, then 
louder as a road-house was past, then faint again as it 
was left behind. 

“Want to get off,” asked Dudley, “and rest a bit?” 

They dismounted by a bench, leaned the wheel against 
it, and sat down. Dudley put his elbow on the back and 
looked at her intently. She appeared to be unconscious 
of him, and watched* the rush of wheels past her. He 


146 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


cautiously reached over and took her hand. She glanced 
into his eyes, stood up, pressed his fingers lightly, and 
said, very much as one giving a command : 

“Come on, Dudley. Take me to Minden’s, will you?” 

“Of course I will.” 

Emeline instantly regretted the pressure of his fingers. 
He would have done as she wished without that. Half 
a mile further down they crossed the boulevard and rode 
into the shed at Minden’s, gave their wheel to the man in 
charge, and walked up the gravel driveway to the res- 
taurant steps. All the doors and windows were open on 
both floors, and a blaze of light streamed from the build- 
ing. Handsomely dressed men and women sat about 
small, round tables on the broad porch, sipping wines, 
and high-balls, and cocktails, and claret punches. Be- 
yond the box gardens that partitioned off the restaurant 
from the open cafe were square tables covered with fine 
white cloths and sparkling with silver and glassware. 

Dudley led the way here, and she tried to follow him 
with the easy air of one accustomed to such places, in- 
different to the stare of men about her. They were 
shown to a table by a waiter in a dress suit, who drew 
the chair back for Emeline and pushed it gently under 
her. He snapped his fingers sharply and another waiter 
appeared, with a napkin over his arm, who handed Dud- 
ley the bill of fare, card and a pencil. All the tables 
about them were occupied, and Emeline gazed greedily 
at the brilliant scene. How rich and luxurious was 
everything here ! With all the people* laughing and talk- 
ing, there was scarcely abound. A low, musical murmur 
of voices, an occasional clinking of glasses was all. The 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 147 

waiters hurried stealthily in and out, carrying trays of 
steaming dishes or little kegs of ice, with bottles in the 
centre. At the table next to theirs were a man and a 
woman who interested Emeline. 

He was facing in her direction, but he had not looked 
at her. He leaned back in his chair, one hand in his 
lap, the other resting lightly on the table. With his 
forefinger he moved a fork-handle back and forth, about 
half an inch each way. An enormous diamond flashed 
from his third finger, and another from the bosom of his 
shirt. He was in full evening dress. He was slightly 
bald, his face was long, and his features large and regu- 
lar. He wore a heavy moustache, with long waxed ends. 
He looked at his plate and occasionally glanced at the 
woman opposite him. His eyes were large, dark, and 
bold. When he smiled he lifted the corner of his upper 
lip and exhibited a few gleaming teeth. Emeline was 
fascinated by him because of his air of indolence and 
strength, his evident ease in rich surroundings, and be- 
cause she believed him to be a true aristocrat. 

The lady was leaning with her elbows on the table, her 
cheek resting on her clasped hands. She was talking to 
him in a voice so low that Emeline could not hear it. He 
spoke a word or two now and then, and answered her 
gurgling laugh with a smile. She was dressed in a silk 
gown of a most brilliant blue, with a yoke of white satin 
embroidered with beads. There were rows of fine lace 
running diagonally about her waist. Her sleeves ended 
at the elbow in a wide ruffle of lace. A long pair of 
white gloves lay with her fan on the table. Her little 
head was covered with a mass of yellow hair, seemingly 


148 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


held in its position by great turquoise-headed pins, set 
round with diamonds, and two combs adorned with the 
same jewels. Emeline watched eagerly for a glimpse of 
her face. Her attention was suddenly drawn from her 
to the man. She met his gaze fixed full upon her, and 
caught the gleam of bold admiration in his eyes. She 
felt the blood rush to her cheeks, and looked quickly 
down. Her heart beat loudly and her eyes shone with 
pride and cunning. She realised then that a power was 
growing within her, and that, if given the chance, she 
could make even these aristocrats do her bidding. 

“This is a swell place, all right,” said Dudley, in a 
voice so loud it made her start. 

She looked up quickly and saw the man drop his eyes 
and smile. She cast a contemptuous glance at Dudley 
and the old passion of resentment filled her soul. Why 
should she be sitting here only as a passing waif, with 
this lout for a companion, when other women breathed 
such an atmosphere as a familiar thing? She said very 
little during the meal, but her emotions were active and 
varied. She knew that the stranger looked at her often, 
and when she ventured to pass a glance by him, she saw 
that he was looking at her for her own sake and not 
just because she was there. She saw the woman’s profile, 
and told herself that it was flat and expressionless. 

“If I had her gown and her jewels,” she thought, “I 
would be irresistible beside her.” 

All through the dinner Dudley wondered at her 
strange behaviour toward him, at her flushes, and her 
silence and short answers, at the passion moving like 
troubled shadows in her eyes. 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 149 


When they were again on the cycle-path he suggested 
that they turn off and take a run down to the Old Mill, 
but she would not do it. She was not thinking of him. 
They stopped for a drink at the fountain in the corner 
of the park, and he asked her to walk up one of the side- 
paths with him. She sat on a bench and made no reply. 

Sitting in the dark shadow of the trees, the broad 
plaza outside looked like a shining patch of fairyland. 
Trolley cars, shedding a bright glow, passed through it 
constantly. Crowds of wheelmen were pouring into it 
out of the path, and as only their lights could be clearly 
seen, the effect was that of a dark, swift tide, bearing in- 
numerable round bubbles of light. The hotels and re- 
sorts on the far side of the circle were brilliantly illu- 
minated, and seemed, at this distance, like enchanted 
palaces. Emeline watched without heeding. The vision 
before her played upon her senses and helped to in- 
fluence her fancy, but she was not conscious of it. She 
was wondering what she could do to hasten the day of 
her emancipation from vulgar toil and poverty, and lift 
herself quickly among the luxurious and idle. 

“What has come over you?” said Dudley. He moved 
closer, and putting his arm about her shoulders, bent 
his face toward hers. She turned upon him with a 
quick, angry glance, and pushed him away. 

“Keep your hands off,” she snapped. “What are you 
trying to do, anyway ?” 

“Oh, come, Emma, don’t be so touchy. You’re not so 
nice as all that, are you?” He was thinking of the 
amount of money and time he had spent on her. “Isn’t 
something coming to me ?” he asked, leaning toward her. 


150 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Take me home,” she said, rising from the bench. 

“Not on jour life. You must think I’m a sucker.” 
There was a sneering, angry note in his voice. A gleam 
of lust leaped in his eyes. He caught her about the waist 
and drew her down to him. 

“Let go of me,” she commanded, trying to wrench 
herself free. He fought for possession of her arms, as 
she tried to scratch and strike him. In the struggle her 
face was drawn close to his neck. Her lips were pressed 
against it. She opened them with a snarl of rage and 
buried her teeth in his flesh. 

“H — 11 !” he cried, flinging her from him and clapping 
his hand to the wound. She stood quivering near him, 
with a fierce light in her eyes. 

“Get away from me,” he cried. “I’ll not take you 
home, you cat !” 

He jerked his tandem out of the rack, and jump- 
ing on the front seat, rode away, leaving her be- 
hind. 

She went home by trolley, glad to be rid of her com- 
panions. She would have nothing more to do with them. 
It seemed to her that she had stood that night near the 
threshold of the shining palace, and had been all but in- 
vited in. She vould not stand with the rabble outside 
forever, but so long as she must she would not mingle 
with them. 

From that time Emeline avoided everyone she knew. 
She scarcely opened her lips in her own home, and said 
little to Thekla. She went to the sewing classes regu- 
larly and worked with such skill and diligence that the 
teacher took a special interest in her, praising and en- 


THEKLA REFORMS CONEY ISLAND 151 

couraging her and finally promising to get her a place 
with some dressmaker. 

She never loitered about the square, but took long 
walks up Fifth avenue and Broadway, watching the 
people on parade, absorbing their spirit, imitating their 
manners. She stood before the windows of the fashion- 
able shops, sometimes entering a dressmaker’s or a ladies’ 
tailoring establishment to ask for a position there. 

One day in her rambles she came upon Gramercy 
Park. It was a warm July evening, and the sod so rich 
a green, the well-kept flower beds, the fountain, with its 
jet of water and its dripping basins, the trim gravel 
walks, the green iron chairs and settees under the trees 
and about the lawn, caught her soul as she hurried along 
the tall iron fence toward the gate with eager feet. Here 
was the place for her. How noisy and vulgar Wash- 
ington Square seemed beside this little green and fra- 
grant paradise enclosed. There were no slovenly, fat 
women, no dirty children, grime-covered labourers, nor 
shabby tramps in here. 

She could see young men in white flannel trousers, 
freshly creased, bright blue coats and straw hats, with 
wide silk bands, and young women in dainty white and 
pink and blue silks and muslins. A few children ran over 
the lawn, but they were not rough and noisy, and their 
clothes were rich and handsome. She came to the gate 
and found it fast. 

“Won’t this gate open?” she asked of a little boy on 
the other side. 

“Oh, yes, it will open.” 

“Well, how do you do it, then?” 


1 52 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“With a key.” 

“Must you have a key?” 

“Of course.” 

“Where do you get one?” 

“Oh, you can’t have one unless you live on the block. 
You can’t come in if you don’t belong here.” 

So that was it. She might have known she would have 
been excluded from any place so joyous and beautiful. 
She turned her back upon the park and walked hurriedly 
away. A few days later she came again and walked 
around it. The sight of this secluded garden, and 
the fact that it was locked against her, was a torment, 
but she could not keep away. It became the most fre- 
quent goal of her walks. 


CHAPTER XII. 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD . 

M RS. STORRS had drawn to her house, receiving 
from them the means of her support, a num- 
ber of the most exemplary people. Her entire 
second floor was occupied by Mr. Andrew McClaren, a 
wealthy retired lumber dealer of sixty, his wife, their 
daughter Alice, aged forty, and Mrs. McClaren’s sister, 
Mrs. Winthrope, a widow of twenty years’ standing. It 
might almost be said that she and Mrs. Storrs vied with 
each other in the memories, the sighs and melancholy 
glances incident to devoted widowhood. 

Mrs. McClaren was a portly woman. Her opinions 
were few and positive. Having stated them, she must 
remain silent or repeat them. Her only other resource 
in an argument was to say : “Sir, I consider your views 
highly improper.” 

Mr. McClaren had a very clear conception of the 
world as he had seen it, but he had looked upon it only 
from the standpoint of a man with a large business to 
protect and make profitable, and later from his seat in a 
carriage, his pew in St. Paul’s, or his box at the opera. 

The first three rooms on the third floor were occupied 
by three single ladies from New Haven, daughters of an 
153 


154 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

old friend of Mrs. Storrs’ father. Miss Susanne Wau- 
delle was in New York solely to look after her sisters. 
Miss Aurelia was devoted to art. Elizabeth received in- 
struction on the piano three mornings of the week, and 
practised in her own room five hours every day. 

Mr. Truesdale, a bachelor, was at the head of an asso- 
ciation of charities. His organisation was supported by 
people of various denominations, and Mr. Truesdale, al- 
though a Congregationalist himself, was of a liberal 
mind and believed that men professing other Christian 
creeds would be saved. 

These people are important only because they, with 
others of about the same equipment, form what seeks to 
be a ruling class in our society, fixing its standards and 
customs. There are enough of them to almost succeed. 
In every age such as these are the ones to hold fast to 
tradition, for, having gained a place close to the feeding- 
trough, any great shifting about might crowd them 
away. 

Lou was a foreigner in her mother’s home. She craved 
a conception of life that could satisfy companions whom 
she might love. Mrs. Storrs had often warned her 
daughters in ambiguous terms against a free associa- 
tion with men. She had from their childhood impressed 
them with the virtue of respectability, the value of ap- 
pearances, the wisdom of holding themselves dear that 
others might covet them. Amy found the prevailing 
standard all-sufficient, for it was suitable to her nature. 
Lou did not. She had lived but nineteen years, but 
during them she had thought much and wondered more. 
She was a canny, expectant little woman at five. At nine- 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD 


155 


teen she looked the world straight in the eyes and saw 
much deeper than she knew. An inquisitive mind, a 
tender heart and a sensitive, innocent soul dwelt in this 
tempting body on tiptoes toward the world. She was, 
above all things, curious. She wondered alike as to the 
nature of the stars, the cause of a smile on a passing 
face, what were the thoughts of a man’s heart, what 
might be the mystery around the corner or in a far land. 
She would have run away with Aladdin in the winking 
of an eye; she would have been sorely tempted by any- 
one who seemed like him. 

When Edgar Adams had first entered the household 
she had taken a great delight in him. He was a young 
lawyer who had found favour with Mr. Vandemere and 
Judge Preston, and because of this was allowed consider- 
able liberty by Mrs. Storrs. 

He had come to their table and to their evening dis- 
courses with bold opinions, and she revelled in the con- 
sternation they caused. Economy and thrift had 
brought him from the farm, through college, and 
launched him in New York, but these qualities seemed to 
be no longer required for a career. His personal mag- 
netism, his fine voice, his wit and eloquence seemed to be 
of more service to him now. By degrees he became less 
revolutionary in his opinions. It seemed only necessary 
for him to saunter easily onward. He had been four 
years in New York, and had made and spent over ten 
thousand dollars in that time. He belonged to the Uni- 
versity Club, had a desk in the law offices of Stevenson, 
Logan & Barr, and his name was on their entrance door. 
He was looked upon as a future member of the firm. 


156 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Judge Preston saw in him a possible figure in politics. 
William Vandemere believed he would eventually have in 
him a man capable of moving juries to have pity on 
corporate interests. He wore a dress suit in the evening ; 
he went often to the club or the theatre or out to dine. 
He did not always spend the night in his room, and his 
strong, dark face was beginning to reveal the imprint of 
the world. 

He no longer had any very definite purpose in life, and 
could not, therefore, bring himself to make much effort. 
He was fond of Lou, but this affection had not yet taken 
a form in his consciousness to generate definite plans. 
He liked best to sit on one balcony in the still twilight 
and watch her as she sat with her mother and sister on 
the other. Her eyes were so bright and clear, her cheeks 
so filled with warm flushes of colour, her voice so sweet, 
even in its frequent irony. But he was not altogether at 
ease when he talked with her. She laughed at his wisdom, 
and he realised that he was uttering platitudes. She be- 
came cold or cynical if he grew tender. 

It was, of course, impossible for such a household to 
live pleasantly together. Adams possessed a sympa- 
thetic nature, but he was, at this period, blinded by the 
brilliance of the world. His own small success and the 
prospects of his future satisfied him temporarily, and 
he viewed life, while in this state, with a superficial com- 
placence, only occasionally disturbed by the stirring of 
the deeper elements of his character. The people of the 
boarding-house irritated and amused him. 

For a long time it had been necessary for Adams and 
Lou to resort to little deceptions in their intercourse. 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD 


157 

The Waudelle sisters began to see something exceedingly 
significant in the glances they exchanged, in their walks, 
in their tendency to sit together in one comer of the 
parlour, a little apart from the rest. When Adams ceased 
to accept Susanne’s invitations to step upstairs after 
dinner and hear Elizabeth play, she began to speak with 
Mrs. McClaren and Mrs. Winthrope about his interest 
in Lou. Of course, she spoke pleasantly, as one friend to 
another, concerning the affairs of a third, but this seem- 
ingly innocent gossip was as effective as a scandal would 
have been. Mrs. Storrs would not have her daughters 
talked about in connection with any men to whom they 
were not engaged. She, therefore, took Lou aside one 
morning to give her some of that wise moral instruction 
commonly held to be the proper defence to a young girl’s 
virtue. 

“Lou,” she said, “I wish you would be a little more 
careful in your conduct toward Mr Adams.” 

“Why — what do you mean, Mamma?” asked Lou, 
flushing. 

“You ought not to look at him so much at the table, 
nor sit in the corner with him, away from the others. It 
makes people talk, and that is not good for a girl.” 

Lou was amazed and distressed. She could say noth- 
ing. She looked at her mother with burning cheeks. 

“I don’t mean,” said Mrs. Storrs, gently, “that there 
is any harm in what you do. Mr. Adams is a very inter- 
esting young man, and your Uncle William assures me 
that he has a brilliant future. I would not allow him to 
be in our family, otherwise. But he has rather peculiar 
ideas, like all men of genius, and I do not like to have 


158 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

you talk with him alone as much as you do. You are 
only a girl and you might be greatly influenced by his 
ideas.” Lou smiled at this, but she was still too much 
confused to speak. “Anyway,” continued her mother, 
“it is not wise for you to permit his attentions to you, or 
your interest in him, to become subjects for talk. Some 
day you will, of course, meet a good man whom you will 
love and marry. But you are too young to think about 
that now. A young girl must be very careful in her re- 
lations with men until she is engaged, and even until she 
is married she cannot be too modest.” 

Mrs. Storrs looked at her daughter anxiously, and 
seeing her confusion, said, with increased gentleness: 

“I have thought it best to speak very frankly with 
you, my dear, because I believe there comes a time when 
a mother should caution her daughter in plain words. 
But don’t let this distress you. I am not reproaching 
you, for you do not deserve it. I just want you to be 
careful, that is all.” 

This conversation had occurred six months after Mr. 
Adams had entered the boarding-house. For a time, 
Lou avoided him altogether, because of the confused self- 
consciousness her mother’s counsel had brought her. 
During the last year she had been going every day to 
the Berlitz School, or to the studio where she received 
lessons in music. Adams occasionally met her a block 
or two away, and walked with her to these places. There 
were pleasant afternoons when the matinee, or the ride 
up the avenue on a ’bus, or the rolling lawns and cool 
groves of the park tempted them from the work of the 
day. 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD 


159 


It was the city at night, however, that lured her most, 
for of this she knew the least. She could see the Square 
from her bedroom window, and she watched its moving, 
noisy throngs, heard its songs and laughter, its shouts 
and ceaseless clamour, with an unreasoning longing to be 
a part of a life that seemed to her far-off view wholly 
free and engrossing. Looking from her windows, she 
sometimes saw Adams there in the evening. She wished 
that she might be as independent as he. If she could 
only wander at will through this bewildering maze, this 
great, throbbing city, so insistent, so mysterious. As 
yet, she had only succeeded in stealing from the house 
when its inmates were asleep, to sit with him on a bench 
in the Square. But at this hour, the crowds were gone, 
the life of the world was still far away. Her mood was 
altogether restless and eager. But this was the extent 
of her adventures. 

Curiously enough, the restraint came from Adams. 
He enjoyed these surreptitious meetings in the night. 
It was always a new wonder to watch this young girl, 
glowing with eagerness in a vague pursuit. But farther 
than the bench he would not take her. To him, also, life 
had once been an alluring mystery. He was now more 
familiar with its obscure places, its secrets by day and 
night. He had reached that stage when an aimless, in- 
dulgent life grows somewhat stale. His disgust at his 
own dissipations increased, and with it a reverence for 
all that was clean and innocent. He began to look with 
a kind of worship on Lou’s girlish figure and the un- 
tainted freshness of her countenance. He shuddered at 
her curiosity. How little she realised what it was she 


160 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

was seeking to penetrate. He at last refused to meet 
her in the Square at night, a refusal that filled her with 
resentment. She was one of a youthful multitude, tor- 
mented by unknown impulses, whose craving for knowl- 
edge is met by empty precepts. Is it strange that they 
are restless and unreasonable? 

Life would have been intolerable had Lou not found 
relief in one of those idolatrous friendships that some- 
times exist between girls. The one being that she loved 
with unquestioning tenderness was Dora Preston, a 
cousin by association, but the saint and sister of her 
affections. 

Whenever Mrs. Storrs went to see Mrs. Vandemere, 
Lou went with her, that she might have an hour with 
her friend. If Dora was not there, she was at home, 
next door. Lou was not a coward, but she felt a diffi- 
dence, amounting almost to dread, when in the presence 
of Judge Preston. He was a silent man, whose opinions 
or position, though seldom expressed in words, could 
never be misunderstood. 

Dora had been reared in his shadow. She was now in 
her eighteenth year, a slender, delicate girl, with a singu- 
larly serious and ingenuous nature. Every emotion of 
her affectionate soul found an unchecked expression in 
her face. Her eyes, of a changeable soft gray, shone 
with a warm light from within. She had been carefully 
educated by private teachers, under the eye of Mrs. Van- 
demere, yet she seemed at times to be still a child. She 
possessed an exceedingly quick and deep appreciation, 
was easily and profoundly moved, but it was still the 
spirit of youth that was most manifest through her. 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD 


161 


# She was as devoutly religious as the ideal nun. She 
loved Richard Vandemere with the tender, unconscious 
abandon of a Juliet. Religion and love, the two most 
powerful passions, were one with her. As a child, she 
had gone to church, to missions and benevolent institu- 
tions with Mrs. Vandemere, and all that the woman did 
perfunctorily the child had invested with a holy spirit. 
The church to her had always been the habitation of a 
tender Divinity. 

When she drove with Mrs. Vandemere to the asylums 
she was permitted to carry toys to the children and flow- 
ers and lace caps and shawls to the old ladies. She had 
never been allowed to enter the homes for friendless girls 
or fallen women, but as she sat in the carriage outside 
her heart was oppressed with a painful wonder. She 
did not understand the mysteries of these sombre places, 
but she could have wept for sympathy with their inmates. 
This was the spirit of her religion. She accepted the 
doctrines of the Episcopal Church unquestioningly, and 
gave to them and to its forms and customs all the beauty 
of her own soul. 

Her love for Richard Vandemere was as much a part 
of her being as her religion. She had always loved him, 
and looked upon herself as his. As a child, she had been 
at his instant disposal. She had found her greatest 
happiness in being of use to him. She had instinctively 
lived in accord with her father’s will, and there had been 
nothing but an even, peaceful silence about their rela- 
tions. Until recently she had known no personal sorrow. 

One afternoon in July, Lou, very much in need of 
some one with whom she could talk freely, went alone to 


162 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

her Aunt Susan’s, and found Dora in the library, read- 

ing. 

“Come out to the park, Dora,” she said, and help me 
to be wretched.” 

“You, Lou? I thought you were never wretched.” 

“I don’t like to be, it is so uncomfortable. But I am 
to-day, and I can’t help it.” 

“Why, Lou dear, I really believe you are. What 

is it?” 

“Come to the park and I will tell you.” 

The two girls left the house, crossed over to the park, 
unlocked the gate, and locking it behind them, walked 
slowly, arm-in-arm, to a seat under a huge elm. A 
mother and her daughter were on another shaded bench 
at a little distance, reading aloud. Only the faint mur- 
mur of the daughter’s voice could be heard. 

“It was so hot and dusty coming over,” said Lou. 
“How sweet and cool it is here.” 

“Now, what is the secret?” 

Lou looked thoughtfully over the green lawn, her 
eyes vague with speculation. 

“I don’t understand people like my mother, who just 
seems to love trouble. Dora, I have decided one thing. 
I will not live at all unless I can live happily. I must 
hit upon some course that will give me satisfaction and 
f reedom, make life seem at least worth while. I want to 
act honestly. But here I am, living at the expense of 
my mother, and rebelling against her designs for me. 
She is elated just now because Aunt Susan has consented 
to have Amy and me with her in Newport. The things 
she considers important are nothing to me.” 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD 163 

“Dear Lou,” interrupted Dora gently, “why don’t 
you tell me what the real trouble is?” 

“You love Cousin Dick, don’t you, Dora?” 

Dora, surprised, looked suddenly away. 

“I know you expect to marry him. But do you love 
him — really love him?” 

“Oh, Lou,” murmured Dora, “what makes you ask 
me?” 

“Because I want to know how it began, what it is 
like, and if you ever doubt it.” 

Dora, distressed and helpless, could not answer, but 
Lou was too disturbed by her own thoughts to heed her 
silence. After a moment of brooding, she said: 

“I don’t know whether I love Mr. Adams or not and 
then with emphasis : “I am wretched, Dora. If I could 
only earn my own living.” 

Lou felt a quiver of the girl beside her, and saw that 
Dora’s eyes were closed. Tears were beginning to ap- 
pear under her lashes. She wondered if it could be only 
sympathy for her that caused them. 

“Lou,” said Dora presently, “perhaps I shall want 
you to live with me some time. If you won’t marry, per- 
haps your mother would be satisfied with that. We 
would share everything and be like sisters.” 

“You, Dora? Have you forgotten Dick?” 

“Perhaps he will not wish — to marry me.” 

“I thought that was all settled.” 

Dora was silent. 

“But you know that he loves you ?” 

“I have scarcely seen him for two years. I thought 
he would be home this summer, and I just waited for him 


164 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

to come. It was such a long winter. But he went right 
from college to Italy with some friends. I have only 
had one letter from him, just a scrawled note.” 

“How foolish you are. You are just imagining 
tilings. Why, Dick loves you, and he always will.” 

Dora leaned forward and looked eagerly at Lou. 

“Do you think so?” 

“He adores you. Don’t I know it?” 

“Oh, do you think so?” 

“There is no one in the whole world for him but you.” 

“Why don’t he write to me — and tell me so ?” 

“Because he has grown to be a big boy, and is not yet 
a man. His very indifference is a sign that there is no 
doubt in his mind.” 

“How wise you are,” said Dora. 

They were silent for a while, Dora holding Lou’s hand 
tucked in her lap. Big in feeling, little in knowledge, 
children lied to, wandering in the dark, what could they 
say or think to satisfy? 

The days were long now, and it was after six when 
they left the park. The sun was still shining brightly 
over the western buildings and pouring a slanting light 
under the trees. A deep shadow was slowly creeping 
over the lawn from the west. 

As the two friends approached the gate, they saw 
Emeline standing near the fence outside, looking in. 
She had that day been given a place at ten dollars a week 
in a dressmaker’s on Fifth avenue, and had come here on 
her way home. 

“Look, Dora,” said Lou softly, “there she is again.” 

“She is very beautiful.” 


A GIRL AND THE WORLD 


165 


“Do you think so, Dora?” 

“Her eyes are wonderful.” 

“I wish I knew why she comes here so much, and who 
she is.” 

“I have often wondered.”’ 

Emeline watched them come through the gate and 
heard it click behind them. She saw Dora run up the 
steps of a house opposite, and followed Lou for some 
distance. She stood on the corner until Lou reached 
home. “How do all these people get where they are?” 
she asked of herself. “There are so many everywhere.” 

As she passed through the Square, she concluded that 
as soon as she could make money enough, she would leave 
home and live by herself. She would find fixed quarters 
somewhere in this region of ease and elegance so close 
about her, so aloof, so serenely unconscious of her 
existence. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT . 

I T was a desolate summer and fall for Karl. He 
missed the flowers of his garden as an affectionate 
father misses his children when they have gone 
from him. His mind was constantly wandering to the 
little yellow house and the garden surrounding it. As 
he sat by his window, or on a bench in the Square, brood- 
ing, remembering, trying to foresee, the fears that beset 
him grew constantly more real and threatening. He 
watched the leaves wither and fall. He felt the winter 
upon him, and it spoke to him of disaster. He was 
obliged to spend more time in his work-room now, for his 
hands and eyes were surely failing him. He would soon 
be useless, and there was so much for him to do. When 
he had first insured his life, all his anxiety for the future 
had left him. Death, however, becomes a grim compan- 
ion if he remains day after day by a man’s side. As the 
months passed and Karl felt more and more certainly the 
nature of his fate, its elements of pathos became more 
clear. He could die for Katrina and his children, but 
he must weep at the thought of their fright and sorrow, 
and of his own tragic separation from them. December 
found him certain that the end was near. He could etch 
166 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 167 


no longer. His hand shook with the first stroke of the 
pen and spoiled his work. For a time after this dis- 
covery he remained constantly near Katrina. He sat in 
the kitchen, if she were busy there; he followed her into 
the front room when she settled herself to sew. 

They would sit together, hour after hour in silence. 
In the evening as she dozed in her chair beside him, he 
would stealthily take her hand and hold it, bowing his 
head and closing his eyes to keep the tears back. And 
peace came to him with these days of silent, affectionate 
farewell. He fixed the day of his sacrifice and the bur- 
den of uncertainty was lifted. 

Thekla had arranged to remain away from the feather 
factory one morning in every month in order that she 
might go with her father to make his purchases. He 
did not like to go on these errands alone and it was a 
joyous holiday for her. The morning after his decision, 
they took their four market baskets and walked over to 
Sixth avenue. 

It was not quite two weeks before Christmas, and the 
world about them was alive with the spirit of the ap- 
proaching holidays. The snow had been cleared from 
the walks, and streets, and piled in great heaps along 
the curbing, and was now being shovelled into carts and 
waggons and hauled away. The crisp air was filled with 
the scraping of shovels, the soft thud of the snow as it 
fell back upon the loads, the call of drivers to their 
teams, as they backed into position or pulled away. The 
rushing of the elevated trains overhead, the whirr and 
clatter of the surface cars, with their gongs and bells, 
the monotonous rumble of waggons,far and near, and the 


168 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


beating of iron-shod horses’ feet upon the granite pave- 
ment, were familiar sounds, but the swarms of people 
streaming past brought with them the atmosphere of 
their intentions, and for any one' moving among them, 
with an undisturbed mind, all the roar and rumble and 
clatter of the city was significant of Christmas. Thekla 
walked by her father’s side, her head constantly turned 
toward the show windows moving past her, a glittering 
panorama. She saw mimic forests, laden with candles, 
gleaming balls of every colour, toys and tinsel. There 
were showy grottoes filled with little wax fairies, jovial 
Kris Kringles driving reindeer, hitched to sleighs, fairly 
toppling with their tempting loads, whole windows with 
nothing in them but candy, piled in heaps, or hanging in 
cornucopias or baskets, or packed in boxes with pictures 
on their lids. 

Entering a large wholesale and retail grocery house 
on Sixth avenue, Karl made purchases amounting to five 
dollars, had the packages put into the four market bask- 
ets, and gave a fifty-dollar bill to the clerk that waited 
on him. This was sent up to the office with his purchase 
slip. The cashier was, at the moment, counting a pile 
of bills, wetting her thumb occasionally on a sponge. 
As she took Karl’s money, her wet thumb slipped 
over its surface, leaving in its wake a trail of 
blurred ink. She looked at the bill quickly, and saw at 
once that it was a pen-made counterfeit. She was a 
quick-witted young woman, and without a moment’s hes- 
itation, sent the change back to the clerk. Then she 
left her desk, and walking indifferently across the store, 
to where the manager was standing, told him quietly 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 169 

what she had done. Karl lifted two of the baskets from 
the counter, and accompanied by Thekla, walked out. 

He was followed by the manager, on the alert for a 
policeman. 

Just above Fourteenth street, they stopped before a 
display of fancy footwear. The window was carpeted 
with black velvet, and against this background were 
bronze slippers, ornamented with metal beads, and slip- 
pers of white and black, and purple and red satin. 

“Emeline would like those,” said Thekla wistfully. 
“Can’t we get her some for Christmas?” 

“Oh, yah,” answered Karl. “Some time.” 

There was that in his voice that made Thekla happy. 
She was not looking forward to any personal expecta- 
tion. For a long time she, too, had felt the gloom of 
Emeline’s discontent, and the trouble in her father’s 
heart. The fear that silently followed him *had op- 
pressed her. She suddenly felt now that her father, for 
some reason, was no longer sad. The decision that had 
come to him and the peace that came with it, influenced 
her just as had his troubles and fears, without her being 
conscious of their source. 

They picked up their baskets, and pushed their way 
along the crowded street. The sidewalk was packed 
with people moving in both directions, moving slowly 
because they must. For the most part, it was a genial, 
patient crowd, content to loiter with the mass, good- 
naturedly turning and twisting to make motion onward 
possible. Little pools were constantly forming about 
the show windows and strong currents swept from and 
into the main tide at every shop door. 


170 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Karl and Thekla stopped again, before a great win- 
dow display of dolls, edging into the centre of the crowd 
constantly re-forming here. They worked their way 
slowly, holding their baskets before them, until they 
stood in the front line and could put down their load be- 
tween their feet and the building. 

Before them was a section of Central Park in minia- 
ture. At the back, and along one side, was a wooded 
hill. In the centre was a lawn, around which ran a 
driveway and a gravel walk, lined with benches. Seated 
on the hillside, under the trees, were dolls with hair of 
gold and black, and brown and amber. They looked at 
Karl and Thekla from innocent, wondering eyes and 
smiled at them persistently. They were making acorn 
cups and wreaths of daisies and violets. A merry ring 
of dolls was formed upon the lawn, and they were danc- 
ing, their pink and green and crimson bonnets tumbling 
about their shoulders, their little fat legs in ballet posi- 
tions. Mamma dolls sat on the benches, holding baby 
dolls in their arms, or they walked along the paths, roll- 
ing wicker carriages. Down the driveway dashed a 
black horse, with a gold-trimmed, brown harness, draw- 
ing a red and black dog-cart. A gorgeous blonde, ar- 
rayed in a flaring blue silk skirt, conspicuous lace- 
trimmed petticoats, a belt and collar of gold, and a wide 
blue hat with a yellow plume, was perched upon the high 
seat, driving. 

It would be hard to say which looked more lovingly 
upon this scene, Karl or Thekla. Karl, standing with 
his hands, in their coarse knit mittens, hanging by his 
side, his faded brown overcoat drawn over his humped 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 171 

shoulders, his slouch hat pulled low upon his forehead, 
his hair and beard long and rumpled, his head slightly 
drooping, might have been mistaken for a dull German 
clod, half-asleep, resting by his baskets. Any one look- 
ing under his hat-brim would have seen that his eyes were 
beaming upon these gay little maids before him, and that 
his cheeks were wrinkled with pleasure beneath the beard. 
Had these been children of his own, he could not have 
watched their delight with greater happiness. Thekla 
stood with her head drooping a little to one side, her eyes 
half closed. She looked and smiled a little sadly. She 
was not conscious of her mood. This strong, coarsely 
composed girl, almost masculine in her build and in many 
of her desires, could not see a doll or a baby without a 
melting of the heart, a tender longing. 

There was a sudden disturbance about them. The 
crowd at their backs was jostled roughly, to make way 
for a towering figure in blue uniform, in whose wake 
followed the nervous, thin-faced manager. 

“That’s them by the baskets.” 

Karl looked about slowly, just as a heavy hand 
gripped his coat collar, the hard knuckles prodding his 
neck under the ear. 

“Pick up them baskets,” said the officer, pressing him 
down toward them, and giving his shoulder a wrench. 
“Pick ’em up.” 

A spasm of terror shot through Karl’s body. For a 
moment he was sick and dizzy. He groped for the 
handles, and feeling them, lifted the baskets. Fie looked 
wildly about him for a moment, and saw a sea of eager 
faces peering at him in surprise, fear and curiosity. 


172 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

Suddenly, Thekla, who had been gaping In astonish- 
ment at the officer gripping her father’s coat and yank- 
ing him about, threw off her mittens and flew at his face, 
with coarse epithets and despairing cries to her father. 
She dug her fingers into the officer’s cheeks and ears, and 
almost toppled him over with the force of her body. 
The manager pulled her off, and was blinded by a blow 
between the eyes. The crowd was in a turmoil with 
those trying to get away and those crowding in to see. 
There were cries of fright and shouts of laughter, eager 
demands for the cause of the trouble and jeers at the 
officer and manager. The officer rushed at Thekla, 
dragging Karl with’ one hand. He seized her by the 
wrist and twisted her arm until she fell to the sidewalk 
on her knees. 

“Now, you come along quietly, you devil, or I’ll beat 
you both senseless.” 

“Doan’ fight him, Tekla,” urged Karl, trembling vio- 
lently. “You’ll be hurted yet. It’s all right alretty. 
We must go mit ’im. Oh, yah, mine Got, Tekla, doan’ — 
doan’ do it.” 

“Pick them baskets up,” roared the officer, pushing 
Thekla toward them. Thekla, quieted by her father’s 
voice, half -crazed with anxiety for him, stooped over and 
picked up her load, crying and moaning for her father, 
cursing the officer and the crowding bystanders. The 
crowd fell back, making a narrow way through which 
the officer hustled his prisoners, jerking them onward 
by the shoulders. 

Above Fifteenth street, the sidewalks were not so 
crowded. As far as one could see up and down Sixth 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 


173 


avenue, there was a moving mass of people, but only at 
certain points, where the popular big stores were located, 
did they become so packed as to make* moving difficult. 
For fifteen blocks, the huge officer pushed Karl and 
Thekla along, keeping them a little in advance of him 
and urging them forward by constant twists of their 
shoulders. Karl took no notice of anything and made 
no sound. His head drooped. He did not lift his eyes 
from the walk. They were dull and expressionless. It 
was difficult for him to move rapidly, but he responded 
mechanically to the constant shoving at his shoulder with 
a pitiful eagerness, unmindful of his bodily pain. 
Thekla was goaded almost to frenzy by the knuckles of 
the officer’s fist, prodding her neck, by the rough wrench- 
ing of her shoulder. She tried to hold back and was 
occasionally boosted forward by the officer’s knee. She 
resented the stares and laughter, the curiosity and com- 
ments of the throng about her. She looked at her fath- 
er’s desolate face and rebelled in blind wrath and anguish 
against this horrible, unwarranted assault upon him. 
She saw nothing but curiosity or fear or amusement in 
the faces about her. These thousands of people bent 
on their celebration of Christ’s birth, saw nothing in this 
spectacle of a huge, rough Irishman hustling an old 
man and a girl to j ail, but something curious or disagree- 
able or amusing. 

The thin-faced manager followed close to the heels of 
the officer and his prisoners. They turned east on Thir- 
tieth street, and entered the police station in the middle 
of the block. Karl and Thekla were pushed to the long, 
high counter, behind which, on a level with their faces, 


174 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


sat the sergeant. This official was a short, heavily built 
man of forty. His round, closely cropped head was 
supported by a short, bull neck. His square, protrud- 
ing chin touched his breast. A heavy, black moustache 
partially concealed his coarse mouth, expressive of both 
sensuality and cruelty. His nose was small and sharp. 
His muddy, brown eyes were enlivened only by an ex- 
pression of concentrated antagonism and suspicion. It 
was impossible for this man to smile. His nearest ap- 
proach to it was a sneer. 

He looked quickly at each of the four as they ap- 
proached the bar and mechanically picked up his pen 
and dipped it into a well. 

“I picked up this man on the street. This fellow 
here,” indicating the manager with a motion of the head, 
“accuses him of passing queer money. The girl was 
with him.” 

The sergeant fixed Karl with his glance and said 
sharply : 

“What’s yer name?” 

“Speak up,” said the officer, jamming his shoulder 
against the bar ; “tell him yer name.” 

“Karl Fischer.” 

“Where do you live?” 

Karl felt strangely dull and sick. The voice of the 
sergeant came to him faintly. He could not think 
clearly. The officer shook him up and repeated the 
question. 

“Where do you live, he’s asking you.” 

“Washington Square.” 

“Give me the street and number.” 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 175 


Karl rubbed his 'hand slowly across his forehead, and 
Thekla replied for him. 

“What’s your business ?” 

“Come, speak up here,” said the officer. “What do 
you do for a living?” » 

“He was an engraver,” said Thekla, her voice shaken 
with anger and grief. “Don’t jam him about that way. 
What you trying to do with him, anyway?” 

“Were you an engraver?” asked the sergeant, looking 
at Karl. 

“Yah.” 

“Don’t work at that now, eh? How long ago did you 
stop it?” 

“Fife, six year.” 

“What you been doing since, anything?” 

“I have been making dese moneys.” 

“Be careful what you say,” said the sergeant sharply. 
“It will be used against you.” 

He filled out the blotter, questioning the manager as 
to his name, place of business and charge. Then he 
took the counterfeit, and put it in an envelope. Karl 
was searched, his money and jack-knife taken and 
sealed up. 

“Lock him up,” said the sergeant, swinging about in 
his chair and taking an evening paper from the bar. 
“Turn the girl loose. There is no charge against her.” 

The officer pushed Karl before him toward a door at 
the back of the room. 

“Where are you taking him?” said Thekla. “Fahter, 
Fahter. I must have my Fahter.” She ran after them, 
but was stopped, at the sharp command of the sergeant, 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW ' 


176 

by another giant in uniform, who caught ‘her by the 
head, and wheeled her deftly about. 

“None of that,” he said, with good-natured insolence. 
“You’d better get out of here quietly, and go home.” 
He took her by the shoulder and pushed her, still pro- 
testing and attempting to look back, out of the police 
station into the street. 

“Go on home,” he warned her, “or* you’ll be sent to the 
Gerry.” 

“What are you going to do with him ?” 

“Lock him up. You won’t see him again, and you 
can’t hang around here. Go on home now. Go on.” 

He started down the steps after her and she moved 
away. She stood for hours near the corner, looking 
anxiously toward the dull grey building of the station. 
When the night fell, she turned away weeping. 

Karl was pushed through the back door into a little 
paved court, enclosed by a row of stone cells with iron- 
barred doors. 

Those above ground were for women. He was taken 
down a flight of steps, thrust into a narrow vault and 
locked up. The officer went back to his beat. When he 
was gone, a gruff voice in the next cell inquired : 

“Who are you, pard?” 

Karl did not answer. He sat down on the wooden 
bench along the wall of his cell, buried his face in his 
hands and cried. He was thinking of Katrina, of 
Thekla and Emeline, and he was terribly afraid for them. 

Occasionally, during the night he would fall into the 
corner and doze. Waking up, because of his cramped 
position on the hard bench, he would start to his feet, 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 177 

wondering where he was ; he did not ponder over his fate 
nor attempt to understand it. All his thoughts were of 
Katrina and his children. He sometimes smiled as he 
dozed, for then he dreamed of the meadow back of his 
father’s house in Germany, where he and Katrina had 
played with their brothers and sisters. He dreamed of 
the plump, rosy-cheeked fraulein he had loved and mar- 
ried and brought to America, of their happy years of 
toil and saving, and of the baby Thekla, who filled his 
pipe for him or climbed shouting to his shoulders. 
When he woke up after these dreams and felt the stone 
walls about him, and remembered what had happened, 
where he was, his first emotion was terror, which changed 
to anxiety and sorrow. He did not comprehend his own 
fault. He had been caught by the world that had 
robbed him. “If they catch you,” Abe Larkins had 
said, “they’ll put you in the pen for ten years.” 

At nine o’clock the next morning he was taken in a 
patrol waggon to the. Jefferson Market Court, where the 
proprietor of the grocery store was waiting for him. 
He was pushed down the aisle between rows of benches, 
through a gate in a high wire partition, and close 
against another long counter like that in the station. 

A plump-cheeked Hebrew with black hair and eyes, 
and a very impressive air of youthful authority, whose 
influence on the votes of the junk-dealers had secured for 
him the job of clerk, questioned the groceryman and 
filled out the charge. 

When it was completed, he looked over the bar at Karl, 
and calling his attention to the paper and its import, 
read it aloud in a very impressive voice. 


178 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


During the reading of this charge, the magistrate 
leaned back in his chair, his elbow on its arm, his cheek 
resting on his hand, and studied the face of the accused. 
This magistrate was about sixty years old. His body 
was small, his hands long and nervous, his head rather 
large and finely shaped. His hair was cleanly trimmed, 
still thick, and perfectly white. He wore a military 
moustache as white as his hair. His chin and nose were 
strong and large, his lips of a reasonable fullness ; his 
eyes of a clear, bright blue, somewhat faded with age, 
were exceedingly impersonal in their expression, that is, 
they revealed a soul utterly unconscious of itself. They 
were bright with an eager, penetrating inquiry. This 
man had sat upon the bench for many years, and was 
heartily hated by the newspapers and most of the law- 
yers of the city. He was called irascible, pig-headed, 
high-handed, tyrannical and cranky. He would not 
allow the cases that came before him to slip past. He 
looked upon the police officials as thugs and robbers, 
openly accusing them of using their power to fill their 
purses. The most ordinary case of drunkenness he in- 
sisted on investigating thoroughly. If an old woman, 
blur-eyed and foul-tongued, were brought before him, he 
would not examine her until she was sober, and he used 
what little power he possessed in securing her gentle 
treatment while she was held. He did not confine his 
examination to superficial facts, but insisted on learning 
of the life and surroundings, the general disposition of 
the person before him. He rebuked harsh or incompe- 
tent or lazy lawyers, he scolded the press, and accused 
policemen. Instead of sending some beaten-down vag- 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 179 

rant to the Island, he would summarily seize him from 
the hands of the law, and get him into a hospital or old 
people’s home, paying the expenses himself, when neces- 
sary. 

This magistrate, as he looked at old Karl, during the 
reading of the charge, knew that it was far beyond his 
understanding. It was all a bewildering mumble of 
sounding phrases to him. He also believed that Karl 
was innocent of any intention to defraud. 

“Another victim of the thick-headed police and man’s 
stupidity,” he thought. “If this Karl Fischer had been 
well-dressed and his hair and beard evenly trimmed, if 
he had looked like a broker or a preacher, they would 
have told him he had made a mistake and commiserated 
him* because some one had swindled him. Because he is 
poor and ignorant, they have no means of detecting his 
gentle soul and drag him off to jail, beating and abus- 
ing him, until he proves his innocence.” 

While the magistrate ruminated, the clerk had elabo- 
rately warned Karl, in correct legal terms, that he was 
not obliged to say anything to incriminate himself, and 
then said : 

“You have heard the charge against you. What is 
your plea?” 

Karl stood dumb, looking at the clerk helplessly. 

“He don’t understand you,” said the magistrate. 
Looking at Karl, who had turned toward this friendly 
voice with a dog-like look of gratitude, he said : 

“Did you know this money was made with a pen when 
you paid for your groceries with it? You need not 
answer if you don’t want to.” 


180 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

“Yah,” said Karl, slowly, tears welling to his eyes 
unconsciously. “I made der moneys.” He was affected 
by the kindness of the magistrate, which softened his 
fear into a sorrowful foreboding. 

The magistrate looked at Karl in astonishment. A 
sudden flush mounted to his pale, sensitive cheeks. He 
could not believe what he heard, and reconcile it with what 
he saw in Karl’s gentle eyes. 

“Have you any friends in the city? Any relatives?” 
he asked presently. 

“I haf a cousin. He iss William Roeting.” 

The magistrate thoughtfully pulled at his moustache, 
looking into Karl’s eyes. He was profoundly moved, 
and even a little curious. He would like to study this 
case. He wished it could be tried before him. He be- 
lieved that here was another one of many cases he had 
known, where justice, to be just, must be wise and tender, 
not vigorous and formal. But he could do nothing here. 

“I must commit you to the Federal authorities,” he 
said brusquely. “But I would advise you to send for 
your cousin, and to get a lawyer at once.” 

Karl was driven in the patrol waggon to police head- 
quarters, on Mulberry street, where he was photo- 
graphed, and locked in one of the basement cells. 

Karl, remembering the advice of the magistrate, asked 
the officer who locked him up to send for his cousin, Wil- 
liam Roeting. Such requests, made by prisoners with- 
out influence or money, are not heeded. The law re- 
quires that messages of this nature shall be sent at once, 
but when the police have a person like Karl to deal with, 
they are apt to do nothing without pay. 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 181 


All Sunday afternoon, and all through a wakeful, 
troubled night, he waited, wondering what was to become 
of him now, hoping for some comfort in the presence of 
his cousin. 

At nine o’clock he was taken from his cell and stood 
up in a line with four other prisoners for the inspection 
of the detectives. They looked him over with crafty 
eyes, but none of them had seen him before. During 
this examination, a deputy United States marshal who 
had been summoned for the purpose, came into the room, 
arrested him, and took him before a United States Com- 
missioner in the post-office building. The formalities of 
the magistrate’s court were repeated here. Karl was 
elaborately charged with the crime of passing a forged 
note or bill, and as elaborately warned, in correct legal 
terms, to be careful what he said, lest he incriminate 
himself. 

Karl stood silently before the keen-eyed commissioner 
while this impressive jumble of words was sounding in 
his ears. He now had vague ideas of their import, how- 
ever, and when he saw that he was expected to answer, 
he mechanically repeated his statement to the magistrate. 

“Oh, yah. I made der moneys.” 

This was a very plain and simple case in the mind of 
the commissioner. Here was a counterfeiter caught. 
The only thing now to do, was to send him to the peni- 
tentiary and discover if he was one of a gang, or if he 
worked alone. He was held for examination by the 
Grand Jury, and remanded to the Ludlow street jail. 
A deputy marshal was sent to his home to make an ex- 
amination. 


182 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


He arrived there early Tuesday morning, and was ad- 
mitted by Emeline. When he showed his badge, and 
told her he had come to search the house, she frowned 
darkly and tried to close the door. He pushed her aside 
and walked into the little front room, looking about him 
critically. 

“Where’s your mother?” he asked. 

“She is in bed. She is sick.” 

“In there?” he asked, walking toward a half-closed 
door. He opened it and entered. 

He saw a yellow, wrinkled face on a pillow, a small 
form curled up under the bed-clothes. The cheeks were 
stained with tears, the eyes sunken and inflamed with 
constant weeping. She could hardly see. 

“Look here,” said the deputy roughly, “you had bet- 
ter tell me what you know about this. I know you 
helped your husband make the counterfeits and you’ve 
got more of ’em around here. Where are they? You’d 
better talk up.” 

She started* at his voice, and rising on her elbow, tried 
to strain her eyes to see him better. Her lips trembled 
and it was with a great effort that she asked: 

“Vere is he?” 

“He’s in jail. You’d better tell me about this, or 
you’ll go, too.” 

“Yah, yah,” she gasped eagerly. “I must go mit 
’im.” 

She tried to get out of bed, but could not stand on her 
feet. She sat upon the bed and cried feebly. 

The deputy began to see that she was not an ac- 
complice, and, turning away indifferently, left the 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 18S 


room. Emeline had disappeared, hiding herself be- 
hind the clothes in a closet. Thekla was out. She 
had gone to make another futile effort to see her 
father. 

The deputy seeing no one about, went through the 
house making a first casual search. He would examine 
more closely later, if he found nothing at first. 

He found Karl’s work-room at the end of the house, 
picked the lock and entered. He saw at once that here 
was what he wanted. He removed the frame on which 
Karl worked, from the window, took the pens and ink 
and a few slips of paper with incriminating designs on 
them, and wrapped them in a bundle. 

A tin box locked with a spring padlock was on the 
floor in one corner. He picked this open and discovered 
nearly one thousand dollars in good bills and almost an 
equal amount in forged fifty-dollar notes. He tucked 
the good money between his collar and neck, holding out 
the bosom of his shirt, to let it slip down about his body. 
The forged notes he left in the box, springing the lock. 
Undoing the bundle he had made, he added the box to the 
rest of his evidence. He rummaged about the room for 
another ten minutes, then taking what he had gathered, 
he left the house without further attention to its inmates. 
His eyes glowed with a greedy cunning as he thought of 
the rich perquisites that had come his way. This amount 
would finish paying for a four-storey stone dwelling 
house he was buying in the red-light district, which he 
rented as a brothel. 

The fifteen thousand dollars he had paid for this place 
represented what he had been able to gather, in. the per- 


184 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


formance of his duty in various official positions, aside 
from his salary. 

When he turned in his evidence at the office the mar- 
shal was well pleased, for the conviction of Karl would 
be an easy matter, and it was plain enough that he 
worked alone. It would not be necessary to hunt for ac- 
complices. A gang of counterfeiters in his district 
would not have been to his credit. 

Karl was confined for six weeks in a cell, at the Ludlow 
street j ail. The Federal Grand J ury is called together 
only when a sufficient number of cases have occurred to 
warrant it, and this did not occur until the second week 
of his imprisonment. The United States District Attor- 
ney presented the evidence against him, and the Grand 
Jury promptly rendered an indictment. After this a 
month passed before his case was reached. 

The United States Circuit Court, before which he was 
brought, was presided over by Judge Joshua Preston, 
who, in the opinion of the world, was more of an honour 
to the bench he occupied than he was honoured by it. He 
was not conspicuous for his wealth among his millionaire 
associates. His fortune was sufficient to maintain his 
position comfortably, to educate his daughter, Dora ; to 
dower her respectably, and to provide for her generously 
after his death. He cared for nothing beyond this, so 
far as his social and domestic life was concerned. He 
had, in fact, but one unsatisfied ambition. When he 
was a youth in college, he had fixed his eyes upon the 
Supreme bench of the United States, and all his efforts 
from that time on had been directed toward that goal. 
He was now fifty years old, and a jurist of considerable 


THE LAW SEIZES A CULPRIT 


185 


note. He was well known to the prominent Republicans 
of the nation, for though he never took an active part 
in politics, he always contributed liberally to the cam- 
paign fund, and the still larger sums donated by Mr. 
Vandemere were in a great part credited to him. 

He was a man of great personal dignity, of a stern, 
uncompromising, incorruptible character. He spoke 
slowly, in clear, evenly modulated tones. His speech, 
never impassioned, commanded silence, and there was a 
note of finality in his voice that was seldom questioned. 

When Karl was brought before him, a desolate figure, 
standing alone in the great silent chambers, he looked at 
him while the charge was read, and then asked quietly : 

“Have you no money for a lawyer ?” 

Karl shook his head, and lifted his gentle brown eyes 
to the judge’s face in an unconscious appeal for that 
friendliness the world had once possessed for him, and 
now so hard for him to relinquish. 

“I will appoint as your attorney,” said the judge, 
turning indifferently away, “Mr. Edgar Adams.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


A NATION IS SAVED. 

A S Adams examined the papers, the morning after 
his notification, he saw at a glance that this was 
but a perfunctory proceeding, and that his ap- 
pointment for thet defence* was a mere formality. 

His client had been caught in the act of passing a 
forged note, had confessed himself a counterfeiter for a 
number of years, and the apparatus he used had been 
found in his work room. This was not a case of mere 
circumstantial evidence, threatening the liberty of an 
innocent man. Had it been, he could have entered into 
it with his whole soul. With a sigh for the long delay- 
ing of his opportunity, he put aside the papers unveil- 
ing Karl’s guilt, and buttoning his overcoat about him, 
he strolled leisurely out of the clerk’s room, and down 
the long hall to the elevator; his eyes fixed in reverie 
upon the stone squares of the floor. It would be a part 
of his perfunctory duty to visit his client, but there was 
no hurry about that. He would not seek to delay the 
culprit’s trial, nor to secure his liberty, on a technicality, 
if that could be done. He did not believe in evading the 
law. He believed that many laws were false and unjust, 
and that bigotry, tyrannical power and ignorance often 
186 


A NATION IS SAVED 


187 


wore the mask of justice, but he would not employ sub- 
terfuge and trickery. Truth was the only sure path to 
justice. He formulated this statement silently as he 
was leaving the building. “I will use that some time in 
a speech,” he told himself. 

It was still two hours before noon. That morning at 
breakfast Lou had lifted her eyebrows when he looked at 
her, and this act had informed him that she was off shop- 
ping for the day alone, and would meet him in the din- 
ing-room at Macy’s at half-past twelve, and have lunch 
with him. As he walked down Broadway from the post- 
office building, he looked at his watch, mechanically noted 
the time, and determined to pay the necessary visit to his 
client before noon, and be through with it. He jumped 
on a blue line car, and rode out to the Ludlow street jail. 

At half-past twelve Lou entered the dining-room at 
Macy’s, and was ushered with a flourish by the head- 
waiter to her favourite little table, in one corner, by a 
window. He took her fur cape and muff with a smile 
and laid them on the broad sill, then he turned up the 
vacant seat opposite her own and left her. She leaned 
back in her chair, and put her feet on an ottoman, for 
her trim little legs could not comfortably reach the floor. 
She slowly removed her gloves and scanned the faces 
about her with a quiet, critical gaze of inspection. Her 
fine blue eyes were always unabashed, meeting those of 
men and women alike, without faltering, because she was 
seeing and speculating concerning others, not thinking 
of herself. The glances of men did not cause her much 
emotion. Those she encountered did not possess the 
quality to compel her. Now and then when she saw a 


188 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

gleam of daring, a closer scrutiny than usual, a watch- 
ful cunning, a questioning or a challenge, she smiled a 
little to herself and wondered, almost in these words, 
“Well, what of it? What will happen now?” But 
nothing ever happened. Perhaps this was because her 
eyes were too clear and calm in their inspection, her rosy, 
sensitive countenance too* serene. 

She waited patiently for fifteen minutes for Mr. Ad- 
ams, because she was not thinking of him, and then, as 
she remembered why she was waiting, her feet tapped 
the ottoman smartly. Ten minutes later, she saw 
his tall form approaching between the tables that filled 
the room. He was looking toward her, and smiling in 
apology. 

“Pm sorry, Lou,” he said. 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she interrupted ironically. 

“I had to fairly break out of jail to get here.” 

Lou looked at him quietly as he gave his hat and coat 
to the waiter, and took his seat. She experienced more 
pleasure at this moment than she had in his presence for 
many months. She was vaguely conscious of this and 
began to wonder why. He looked at her for a moment, 
his eyes aglow with some secret emotion. His lips, even 
as they smiled, seemed shaped for grave and tender 
thoughts other than herself. His whole strong face bore 
evidence to either some very recent experience that had 
moved him deeply, or to a scarcely repressed excitement 
over a growing purpose that seemed great and wonderful 
to him. 

She watched him, her elbows on the table, her cheeks 
resting on her hands, as he hurriedly ordered lunch, and, 


A NATION IS SAVED 189 

meeting his quick glance toward her, when this was 
done, said with a smile: 

“What is it, Ed? What have you been into?” 

“You would never guess,” he answered. “Do you re- 
member, Lou, the pleasant old German that found your 
mother’s purse? Well, he is in jail, and about to be 
tried as a counterfeiter.” 

“Why, Edgar Adams! I don’t believe it. How in 
the world did it happen ?” 

“The strange part of it is that he is guilty. You 
would have gone all to pieces, Lou, if you had seen the 
poor old fellow as he looked at me, and said, over and 
over: ‘I made der moneys.’ That’s all I could get 
out of him this morning. What do you think of that? 
Here is a tender-hearted, honest old fellow, who hunts 
up the owner of lost money, refuses any reward for find- 
ing it, and makes counterfeits for a living. I tell you, 
Lou, there is something in that.” 

A sudden flash of humour lightened his eyes. He 
smiled broadly across the table and said : 

“Lou, did you ever hear what Lincoln said when Erics- 
son first presented his idea of a monitor to him?” 

“No, what was it?” 

“He met the inventor by appointment in the presence 
of two or three members of the cabinet, who listened with 
grave attention to his plans. Lincoln sat on a corner 
of the centre table, a leg dangling over its edge. The 
President asked his ministers what they thought of it. 
They expressed themselves in pompous, non-committal 
phrases, and Lincoln slipping from the table, gave his 
coat-tail a brush with his hand, and said warmly: ‘I 


190 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


think, as Bridget said, when she showed her stocking, 
there is something in it. 5 ” 

Adams laughed, but in Lou’s bright eyes was a look 
of questioning. 

“Do you think that is so very witty, Ed?” 

“It’s not that, Lou. That story fairly raises my hair, 
because it reveals a human being who remained simple 
and unaffected in so exalted a position. It’s the man, 
not the story, that affects me.” 

“I see,” said Lou, gravely. She wished that she had 
looked at it in the same broad impersonal way. Such 
revelations of her own undeveloped state did not vex 
her. They made her thoughtful. 

Adams was looking out the window at some far-off 
vision not in the landscape of tall buildings. A soft 
light shone in his eyes. A shadow of melancholy passed 
over his face. With a musing smile still on his lips, he 
repeated in a voice rich with pathos: “I made der 
moneys.” 

Her eyes rested on him gently, her mood in tune to 
his. 

“He is Karl Fischer. He came from Van Buren 
street, Brooklyn, to Washington Square about a year 
ago. The girl’s name is Thekla.” 

“Why, Ed, I knew them !” 

“How long ago?” 

“About six or seven years, I guess.” 

“He was not making counterfeits then. He was an 
engraver. I wonder what started him? By the Lord, 
I must find that out.” He straightened up in his chair 
and looked fiercely toward Lou, 


A NATION IS SAVED 191 

“It was not I,” she said merrily. “Don’t blame me 
for it.” 

“I must find out all about this.” 

“Eat your lunch first.” 

“I don’t want it. This thing has got hold of me, 
Lou.” 

He pushed back his chair, and looked toward his coat 
and hat. 

“Why, Ed, you’re not going?” 

“Yes, I guess so.” 

A flush of anger reddened her cheeks. She looked at 
him in surprise. 

“Aren’t you going to take me to the matinee ?” 

“I couldn’t now, with this thing on my mind.” 

“Now, that’s foolish, Ed. You can satisfy your 
curiosity some other time. Just hear me begging, will 
you? Well, I like this.” 

She was surprised to find herself insisting on their 
engagement, surprised that he should leave her for any- 
thing, vexed, and curiously pleased at her own unusual 
attitude. 

“It’s not mere curiosity,” he said, looking at her in 
appeal. “I have this man to defend.” 

“Oh,” interrupted Lou, sarcastically. “You neg- 
lected to tell me this detail.” 

“Yes, I did,” he admitted, exceedingly uncomfortable 
under her scornful, cynical glance. “It did not seem 
important to me at first. But I am beginning to think 
it is.” A sense of impelling obligation had, indeed, 
taken possession of him. Karl’s gentle face, sorrowful 
and apprehensive, resigned, wistful, full of perplexity, 


192 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


became constantly more clear and appealing. He kept 
saying to himself. “That man is innocent and afraid. 
He is no criminal. Why is he in jail? He made coun- 
terfeit money. There is a mystery here.” 

“Well,” said Lou, with suppressed irritation, “why 
don’t you go?” 

“I guess I will, if you will excuse me.” 

He put on his things and walked away. Lou watched 
him with a tumult of feelings she could neither under- 
stand nor control. For a long time she sat by the table 
looking f rom the window. She sighed and a softer light 
crept into her eyes. 

She noticed the check by Edgar’s plate and smiled. 
Calling the waiter, she paid the bill, leaving a quarter 
on the tray, and went gayly home. 

The other boarders had finished their soup when Mr. 
Adams came hurrying into the dining-room. His eyes 
were wide open, his face disturbed and passionate. He 
looked at those about him without seeing them. Pres- 
ently he caught Lou’s sparkling eyes, and said with 
abrupt vehemence: 

“I was at the jail the whole afternoon. I could 
scarcely get away. This thing is too much for me.” 

“Oh, Mr. Adams,” cried Elizabeth, her eyes distended 
in pretty alarm, “what terrible thing have you done?” 

“What’s that?” said he, turning a rolling eye toward 
his questioner. 

“You said you were in jail, Mr. Adams,” replied 
Aurelia, with a playful glance, “and our Elizabeth 
could not repress her surprise.” 

“Mrs. Storrs,” said Adams, turning abruptly from 


A NATION IS SAVED 


193 


this quarter, “I have a case that will be interesting to 
you. Karl Fischer, the old gentleman who found your 
purse, is a counterfeiter, and I have him to defend.” 

“Indeed,” replied Mrs. Storrs, calmly, pouring his 
tea, and then, with an effusive show of interest : 

“You say he was a burglar? I thought he was an 
evil-looking man at the time. Just to think, Mrs. Win- 
thrope, I received him in my parlour.” 

“Did you say he returned you a purse he had found?” 

“Yes, he did. It contained quite a sum, and when I 
offered him a reward, he refused.” 

“In all probability,” said Mr. Truesdale, “he took 
that opportunity to inspect the inside of your house and 
he refused the money to throw off suspicion from himself 
in case the place was robbed.” 

“I am sorry to spoil the conversation,” said Mr. Ad- 
ams, “but I said the man was a counterfeiter.” 

“There is not much difference, I am sure,” said Mrs. 
Storrs. “The two trades, I should think, might go to- 
gether.” 

“I am surprised,” said Mrs. McClaren, “that you are 
willing to defend such a person.” 

“Now, my dear,” said Mr. McClaren, suavely, “you 
don’t understand such things. A lawyer must defend 
any client who can pay for it. That’s his business.” 

“If I were a lawyer,” she replied severely, “no money 
could hire me to defend a guilty man.” 

“There are many good men liberal patrons of charity 
and faithful church members, who, as lawyers, consider 
it their duty to fight for whatever cause employs them,” 
said Mr. Truesdale. 


194 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Mrs. McClaren,” said Adams, “what meaning do you 
give to the word ‘defend’ ?” 

“There is only one meaning.” 

“There are a good many used.” 

“When you defend a man you are his champion. If 
he has committed a crime you back him up in it, or try 
to lie him out, or help him to avoid the consequences by 
tricks and deception.” 

“Or,” said Adams, “you may learn to understand the 
man, trace the circumstances that led up to this illegal 
act and the simple truth may acquit him of any moral 
guilt. Is it the duty of society to punish good men for 
their ignorance or to enlighten them ?” 

“We would have nothing but chaos,” said Mr. Trues- 
dale, “if we went by such a theory. There are soft- 
hearted or vaguely theoretical people to excuse every 
evil-doer. We can preserve order only by strong 
measures. Ignorance of the law is no ground for ac- 
quittal.” 

“If what you say is true,” said Adams, “it is because 
society has undertaken more than it can perform. It 
requires strong measures only because of its own ig- 
norance, for force is the resource of ignorance.” 

“Do you mean that we should make no effort to enforce 
the laws ? To punish those who violate them ?” 

“I think, that in deciding the destinies of others, we 
should realise our unfitness for the task and go about it 
reverently, lovingly, seeking to approach a little closer 
to truth and justice.” 

As he spoke, the picture of old Karl came vividly be- 
fore him ; the memory of his long, tearful talk with him 


A NATION IS SAVED 


195 

that afternoon, flooded his heart and he kept silent, let- 
ting the conversation about him drift into other ways. 

He felt, however, that this encounter had been good 
for him, for it had helped him formulate his defence. 

“Oh,” he thought, with a melancholy, passionate de- 
sire, “if I could make them see this one good man strug- 
gling in his ignorance against the wrongs and confusions 
of a great, chaotic world, they would love and help him. 
Who knows how many there are like him ? When will we 
cease to judge and seek only to understand men?” 

He went to bed that night with a heavy heart. He 
could not sleep. He felt that his task was far beyond 
him. 

During the entire week he was in a distraught state. 
He did not come home to dinner and was out half the 
night. Lou had no chance to talk with him alone. He 
scarcely looked at her at breakfast and did not heed her 
signs. She was vexed and greatly surprised by this in- 
difference at first, but before the week was gone, she was 
only intensely anxious for his sake and curious to know 
what he was doing. 

Sunday morning she made bold to ask him at the table 
if he was going to church with them. 

“No,” he replied wearily, “the trial of Karl Fischer 
is set for to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, and I am 
not ready.” 

“Couldn’t you get more time on it?” 

“Oh, yes, they would adjourn the case, I suppose, but 
it’s not time that I need.” 

He was overpowered with a sense of his own lack of 
wisdom and power to convince. 


196 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“ Where is the trial to be?” asked Lou, as indifferently 
as she could. 

“In the post-office building — the Circuit Court.” 

All that day and far into the night, Adams worked 
at the table in his room or walked the floor, brooding over 
the man he was to defend, formulating a true account of 
his history, seeking for words with which to portray the 
beauty of his nature. He must come to see this man 
moving among the forces and in the society he had of- 
fended so clearly, that he could reveal him vividly to 
others. He must discover the true attitude of this indi- 
vidual to society, and of society to him, and so present 
what he found, that no harm should come to him, but 
only a wise and tender justice be decreed. 

He wrote and pondered and tore up what he wrote. 
Worn out, at last he went to bed, crushed with the ap- 
prehension of defeat. 

In the morning, he put aside his fears, with a firm 
hand, and went to court with a quiet determination to tell, 
as best he could, what he had learned, and what he felt, 
and trust in the power of the truth. 

There were few people in the court room when the 
case was called. The benches at the sides were empty, 
for with a plea of guilty no jury would be empanelled. 

In the open space before the high bar, behind which 
sat the judge and clerk, was a long table with the prose- 
cuting attorney, his assistant, and a court reporter on 
one side, and Karl and Adams on the other, facing the 
bar. 

Three or four persons with an idle hour on their 
hands, came in and took seats at the back of the room. 


A NATION IS SAVED 


197 


They did not know what case was to be tried. There 
was no press of eager crowds at this trial, for the pris- 
oner was neither a celebrated criminal nor was he con- 
cerned in a social scandal. There was nothing to awaken 
the curiosity or interest of the world in him. 

At ten o’clock, just as the case was called by the clerk, 
Lou entered quietly, her face partially covered with a 
brown veil, so that neither Judge Preston nor Mr. 
Adams might readily recognise her. She found a place 
next to an old gentleman near the door. 

When Adams rose and faced the judge, he stood for 
a moment, his hand resting on Karl’s shoulder, his eyes 
both melancholy and wistful. There was a perceptible 
twitching of his lips. When he finally spoke his voice 
was low and pleading. 

“Your Honour,” he said, with simple directness, “when 
you gave me this case to defend, a week ago, I accepted 
the commission with indifference. At that time, any 
feeling I could have had in the matter must have been 
one of repugnance, for the thought of defending a con- 
fessed criminal was distasteful to me. This week, how- 
ever, has been a momentous one for both my client and 
myself. I have been able to make clear to him, for the 
first time, wherein lay the real wrong of his illegal 
act, and he has revealed to me a truer conception of what 
constitutes human virtue than I had previously per- 
ceived. 

“Karl Fischer, my client here, is guilty of making and 
passing counterfeit money. I make this plea in his 
behalf, and now, on behalf of myself, of the Court, of the 
society we represent, and the Christ our nation professes, 


198 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

I wish to plead for a suspension of sentence against 
him.” 

As Adams paused for a moment after this statement, 
the prosecuting attorney whispered to his assistant, took 
a bundle of papers from the table and went quietly from 
the room. After the plea of guilty, this case had no 
further interest for him. The Court and the assistant 
prosecutor might listen to the young lawyer declaim, but 
he had more important business on hand. The judge 
drew a pile of documents, concerning another case, 
toward him, readjusted a pair of gold-rimmed glasses 
to his beak-like nose and proceeded to inspect them. 

“Judge,” said Adams, putting an intense personal 
note into his voice, which, with the unusual form of ad- 
dress, caught the judge’s attention and caused him to 
look up, “how can I, in the brief time this court can 
grant me, cause you to see this man as he is?” 

The judge met the insistent, pleading eyes of the 
young man addressing him, noted his erect, tense atti- 
tude, his profound earnestness, and settled back in his 
chair to listen. 

For nearly an hour, the solemn chamber was filled 
with this mellow, persuasive voice, recounting the details 
of Karl’s simple, kindly life. As Adams told the story 
of the years during which Karl and Katrina had toiled 
in cheerful patience, making loving provision for their 
old age and the future of their children, Karl sat mo- 
tionless, his eyes filled with the light of tender memories. 
When the ravages these years had made upon Katrina 
and himself were painted in remorseless words, a sudden 
spasm of pain contorted his features. It was the first 


A NATION IS SAVED 


199 


time he had realised the hardships through which they 
had passed and the change they had made in the little 
woman he loved. He no longer listened as Adams told 
of the failure of the bank, the loss of his money, the 
fruitless struggle to find it, his effort and failure to find 
work, the meeting with Abe Larkins, the seven years of 
counterfeiting, the finding of the purse and its return, 
the plan to insure his life and end it, if that should be- 
come necessary, the arrest, and confession of his deed. 
He sat with his head bowed, brooding over this new and 
pitiful picture of Katrina. 

As Adams talked, the face of the judge became 
thoughtful. His glance, wandering at first, finally 
rested altogether upon Karl, and a touch of compassion 
modified, to a slight degree, the stern judicial expression 
of his countenance. 

“This has been the life and character of Karl 
Fischer,” said Adams, when his narrative was ended. 
“He is guilty of a felony in the eyes of the law, but I 
ask for a suspension of sentence upon two grounds. 
The first of these is this : Despite his unlawful course, 
he is an honest man, whose every act and impulse springs 
from affection. He was not ignorant of the law, but 
ignorant of the wrong he did in its violation. Here is 
an important distinction between two kinds of ignorance. 
The theory of punishment is founded upon the belief 
that those who break the laws are a menace to society. 
Ignorance of the law has been held to be no defence, on 
the assumption that those who violate it are prompted by 
evil desires or impulses, and their lack of knowledge con- 
cerning specific prohibitions and penalties should not 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


200 

protect them. I do not, therefore, plead ignorance of 
the law, but ignorance of the nature of the act. This 
man had no intention to defraud. When I found him 
in his cell he was absorbed in sorrow for his wife and 
children, in despair because now he could not get back 
for them the money he had lost. There was no sense of 
guilt upon his conscience, for he did not know wherein 
he had wronged anyone. To help others is his only con- 
ception of right; to injure them, his only conception of 
wrong. When I finally made him realise that each one 
of his spurious fifty-dollar bills must finally be detected, 
and that they would bring loss and perhaps suffering to 
those who then held them, he was overcome with surprise 
and grief. It would be as impossible now for him to 
make and pass counterfeits, knowing that his act must 
rob another, as it was for him to keep a purse of money 
when the owner could be found. Had anyone told him 
seven years ago what I told him in his cell, he would not 
be dependent upon your mercy for his liberty to-day. 

“It seems to me that this alone is a sufficient plea. The 
safety of society does not demand the imprisonment of 
this man. To treat him rigorously would be the only 
real crime in this case. All that can be done for good has 
already been accomplished in the opening of his eyes to 
the consequences of his act. To proceed further against 
him would be but the stupid, unreasoning tyranny of 
power. 

“Had he not been arrested for a few months longer, 
and had he remained in the same condition of ignorance, 
he might have committed another fraud and coupled it 
with the crime of suicide. The time is not long past 


A NATION IS SAVED 


201 


when, in the estimation of God’s professed people, this 
man, laying down his life for the benefit of his wife and 
children, would be hurled into an eternal hell. There 
may be many now who would see in his purpose of 
suicide only the aspect of a crime, but to me it possesses 
the same sublimity as that surrounding the atonement of 
Christ. I have shown him where the fraud lies in such a 
deed, and he will not be tempted to commit it. But show 
this man how, by offering up his life, he can bring se- 
curity to his wife and children, or salvation to the world, 
and he will give it with a grateful heart. 

“What more can you ask of anyone than this ? What 
can we expect of a society that assumes the right to sit 
in judgment and yet shirks the task of discriminating 
between the essentially good and the essentially evil? I 
am told we must not excuse a law-breaker upon such sen- 
timental grounds, for to do so would cast our organisa- 
tion into chaos. I am warned that to release one man 
because, with a heart good and pure and tender, he erred 
through a lack of perception, would be to establish a 
dangerous precedent which the cruel and the malicious 
would turn to their advantage. 

“To such words and warnings I make answer. Is it 
just to punish a good man for his errors of ignorance? 
Are not our laws professedly founded upon the laws of 
God, and must we not in our judgment seek to reflect the 
judgment of Him who reads the heart? May we, I ask 
again, punish a good man who errs through ignorance? 
Should we punish or enlighten him? That is the whole 
question. If it is wiser and nobler to punish him, your 
Honour, send this man to the penitentiary for the longest 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


202 

term at your disposal, for we should not be niggardly in 
our noble deeds. If the truth leads us to a justice that 
metes out love and enlightenment, then I beseech your 
Honour to condemn him to the keeping of these. This 
would be a worthy precedent for a striving world to fol- 
low. It would be a menace only to tyranny, to bigotry, 
or to indolence. It is a poor society that is afraid of the 
consequences of its gentleness and mercy. A tender heart 
is not the best equipment for one who must fight to live, 
and in the complex struggle of our life to-day you will 
find among the bruised and beaten, the outcast and un- 
clean, a vast multitude of souls weak in all tilings save 
generosity and affection. How many of these are to-day 
the victims of man’s competitive strife? I do not know, 
but I claim from you now the liberty of this one before 
you, because he is good.” 

Adams paused as if his plea were finished. Had he 
said no more he might have gained his cause. The 
judge, listening attentively for over an hour, had been 
moved to a degree very unusual for him. He liked the 
young man addressing him, and he expected to find him 
useful. The rich, magnetic voice stirred his soul, and 
the story, told with such tenderness, inspired in him some- 
thing of a responsive feeling for Karl. 

Were he to decide in accordance with Adams’ plea, 
and suspend sentence in the face of the circumstances 
and the prisoner’s confession, it would be a great 
triumph for the young lawyer. He had about con- 
cluded to take the matter into consideration for a day 
or two when his attention was more strongly fixed and 
all his prejudices and beliefs aroused in protest, as 


A NATION IS SAVED 


203 


Adams continued, his voice and manner more aggressive, 
less tender and persuasive than before: 

“But, your Honour, there is still a ground for defence 
upon which I have not tocuched. I have shown that so- 
ciety has nothing to fear in this man’s liberty. But what 
are we to say of society’s treatment of him? 

“There is ample law to defend the United States 
against Karl Fischer, but none to protect Karl Fischer 
against the United States, When we have given him 
his liberty, his right to* which, was justly questioned, but 
which can no longer be justly denied, we still owe him, 
and to his wife Katrina, t.en thousand dollars in cash and 
two straight, sound bodies, for these things they have 
lost because of the institutions and conditions we main- 
tain and compel them to respect. These are not obliga- 
tions in law, but in the* ethics out of which, as we learn 
to perceive it, laws are formed. It may be of no imme- 
diate use to consider such questions in this trial, but it 
seems to me that when a Government comes before a 
cou^rt* of justice with a charge against an individual, it 
should come with its own hands clean, and that if, upon 
enquiry, it is found that the individual is guilty of an 
offence against the Government, and there are laws of 
redress provided, and it is also found that the Govern- 
ment is guilty of offence against the individual, and there 
is no redress, we will have discovered a labour for our 
hearts and heads more worthy of them than the punish- 
ment of those among us who stumble and fall. 

“Is not the Government morally accountable to Karl 
and Katrina Fischer for their ten thousand dollars? It 
was lost to them through, the failure of a savings bank. 


204 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


The little fortune they had wrested from the world in a 
struggle that wasted and twisted their forms, they placed 
here, to stand between them and the death lurking in 
the strife through which they had passed. They placed 
it here in a simple, childlike confidence in the integrity 
of the Government and its institutions.” 

“Do you mean to say,” interrupted the judge, unable 
to restrain his growing impatience, “that a savings bank 
is a Government institution?” 

“I do, your Honour. It is one of many institutions for 
which the Government is morally responsible, but con- 
cerning which it has not yet had the courage to assume 
legal responsibility. Society and the Government are the 
same parties operating under different firm names. As 
a Government, we are cooperative ; as a society, we are 
competitive. As a Government, the labourers must share 
alike in the product of their toil, and the strong must 
protect the weak; as a society, each man is entitled to 
what he can get, and the weak are the natural prey of 
the strong and cunning. Society may more readily 
evade accountability to the individual than the Govern- 
ment. For these reasons, the selfish and the cunning 
among us seek constantly to preserve the distinction be- 
tween Government and society, keeping the two firms 
separate, and conducting, under the name of the latter, 
such operations and institutions as will profit them. But, 
your Honour, while violation of law does not make felons 
of the innocent in heart, neither does a lack of law make 
the guilty innocent. We have already begun to admit 
our Government responsibility for savings banks, and 
have undertaken to safeguard them to some extent, but 


A NATION IS SAVED 


205 


moral responsibility, your Honour, is not measured by 
the amount we are willing to assume under one name, 
while operating in the same matter under another. 

“The Government does not hesitate to boast in times of 
election over such social institutions as it deems credit- 
able to mention, taking credit to itself for all that is 
worthy in them, and for all that is good and encouraging 
in social conditions. But when the wrong and injustice, 
the suffering and hardships fostered by these same social 
conditions are exhibited, the individual alone is held to 
blame, or if injustice and the injury inflicted upon him 
be too plainly from outside, perhaps society, that slip- 
pery, illusive, irresponsible firm, is responsible, but the 
Government, never. 

“The ten thousand dollars taken from my client could 
be returned to him, and the time is not far distant when 
such a claim will be conceded in such courts as this.” 

Adams looked down at Karl, and moving his hand 
across his humped shoulders, continued: 

“This crooked back cannot be straightened; the 
strength that thirty years of incessant, anxious toil and 
close confinement at a bench have sapped, cannot be re- 
newed in this worn-out body. The little, withered 
Katrina who at this hour is, perhaps, weeping away the 
last remnant of her life must, if she lives, keep her 
twisted form, even were this Government of men to find 
its conscience now. It is too late to make restitution to 
them, but for their heirs and assigns we may provide the 
just and safe conditions of life and labour, all those who 
live and labour have a right to ask from the Government 
they maintain. The Government before this court of 


206 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


justice, as the accuser of this man, will do well to con- 
sider the opportunities and conditions it has afforded 
him* for it is upon the value of these it bases its claim 
to his obedience. 

“I have come to believe, your Honour, since the day you 
intrusted Karl Fischer to my defence, that with every 
prisoner lifted from the oblivion of the mass and brought 
before the eyes of the court, we have given to us not a 
criminal to judge and condemn, but an inevitable fruit 
of the condition that exists ; not an isolated culprit, of 
which a good society must, be purged, but a spot on the 
body politic where the disease that is wasting the w T hole 
has become sufficiently conspicuous for us to see what it 
is. How much worse than folly is it, to persistently 
keep picking these, little festers as they appear, when we 
might better seek to cure the disease in the body that 
produces them? 

“We are but openly confronted on these occasions by 
the sins we h,ave nursed in secret. .We are so intimately 
related, one with another, that no man stands alone. 
Every crime, every act of mercy, every curse, every song, 
every lofty appeal, is composed by tl e whole world. He 
who gives it expression is but the mouthpiece of his race. 
When we send a victim to the gallows or to jail, we are 
offering an unwilling atonement for our sins. 

“So long as yo.u and I, your Honour, see men more un- 
fortunate than we, we will be no better than the worst of 
them. You and I belong to that portion of society that 
demands protection against individuals who would de- 
fraud, or stab, or steal, and against the masses who 
would rise. But I believe to-day, that no society will de- 


A NATION IS SAVED 


m 


serve, and, therefore, will not find, protection against 
petty attacks and final overthrow, until it willingly revo- 
lutionises itself at the spectacle of a man obliged to work 
too hard for what he needs must have.” 

“Mr. Adams,” said the judge, with a cold, almost 
menacing decision, “I must ask you to bring your argu- 
ment to an end.” 

Startled by the tone of animosity in the voice, Adams 
looked closely at the judge, and realised, with a pang of 
deadly sorrow, that he had lost whatever sympathy for 
his client he had at first aroused. He looked down at 
Karl, and again toward the bench. The colour left, his 
face. His heart seemed paralysed. He tried to* speak 
again, but could only stammer out sentences half-formed 
and disconnected. He stopped abruptly and sat down, 
staring blankly before him. How had it happened? A 
while before, he saw Karl’s liberty in the judge’s eyes. 
Now he saw only a cold, judicial wrath. He did not have 
long to wait for the reason. 

“I listened to you, Mr. Adams, until you exploded 
your own sophistries and caused me to repent of the 
sympathy you had aroused, by showing me into what 
dangerous paths it led. Those who break the law must 
suffer the penalty. Such utterances as yours, unless they 
be promptly rebuked and covered with the shame they 
deserve, might well lead an ignorant and malicious class 
well on the way to anarchy.” 

After this rebuke, drawn from him in spite of his 
natural dignity and reserve by his disappointment in 
Adams, and his resentment at his heresies, Judge Pres- 
ton pronounced a formal sentence, committing Karl 


208 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

Fischer to Sing Sing for a term of six years, at hard 
labour. 

The court was adjourned, the judge and clerk left 
the bench, the assistant prosecutor and court reporter 
walked out, smiling a little at the calling down 
young Adams had received. An officer led Karl 
away. Adams rose unsteadily, and turning slowly, 
stood watching him go. He remained alone for some 
time in a kind of mental stupor, conscious only of a 
soreness at his heart. He put on his hat and coat and 
left the room. 

As he passed out of the storm door, on the ground 
floor, and entered the street, Lou touched his arm. He 
looked down into her eager, sympathetic face, but saw it 
vaguely. 

“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, 
scarcely conscious of what he said. 

The girl recoiled as if she had been hit. 

“I must get away,” he said, in some effort at apology. 
“I’m in no shape to be with anyone just now. It’s all 
over, Lou.” He hurried away from her and started aim- 
lessly down Broadway. Lou watched him, anger, sym- 
pathy and anxiety contending for the mastery of her 
heart. In a moment she hurried after him, and as she 
reached his side, said quietly : 

“I won’t let you go off alone that way. You needn’t 
notice me, Ed, but I’ll stay by you. What do you mean 
by its being all over?” 

“Dreams and illusions. My imaginary world has come 
to an end, and the world about me, growing real, seems 
very grim. I do not understand it.” 


209 


A NATION IS SAVED 

They walked silently for a time, Lou wondering at the 
mystery of her own conduct, Adams preoccupied. 

He kept repeating to himself : 

“Six years at hard labour.” 

At Fulton street he suddenly realised which way they 
were going. 

“It’s noon,” he said. “Will you have lunch with 
me?” 

“Come home, Ed. I am supposed to be at the Berlitz 
school this morning, and must get back to lunch.” 

“I’ll ride back with you, but I won’t go in. I’m in no 
mood for them.” 

In the car he said abruptly, “Lou, I shall leave your 
mother’s.” 

“What do you mean?” she exclaimed. 

“I’ll take no more favours from Judge Preston or 
Vandemere. I will not do the work of these men in high 
places. I will find work of my own to do, but I fancy 
itfwill not be the sort to please them. Your mother, Lou, 
would require my room as soon as Vandemere ceased to 
promote me. In her eyes I am but a rising moon, re- 
flecting his glory. I won’t wait for her to ask me to go. 
I will pack and leave to-morrow.” 

Lou said nothing. She stared coldly out of the car 
window in front of her, and Adams was hurt by her 
silence. 

She got out at Eighth street, and left him with a 
little, frigid smile. 

He rode to the end of the line, at Fifty-ninth street, 
and back to the Battery. 

“I suppose,” he said, as he got out and looked ab- 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


210 

sently about him, “I had better be looking for some 
place to live and deciding what I shall live by.” 

He walked back up Broadway, pondering over the 
life of Karl Fischer, the curious mixture of tenderness 
and indifference of Lou and the uncertainty of his fu- 
ture. 

“It’s a grim old world,” he said, “but whatever hap- 
pens, I would rather receive the lash than lay it on.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY . 

I N spite of his resolution to leave the Storrs household 
at once, Adams remained. A multitude of per- 
plexing thoughts came with the morning. Al- 
though the problems of life are as old as life, they are 
new to every man as he confronts them. 

The world had suddenly become for him a self-de- 
vouring monster. He saw only its defects and not the 
depths f rom which it has slowly evolved. A kind of rage 
possessed him. He was silent at the table, because he was 
afraid he could' not speak sanely. Who were these people 
who spoke so lightly of Karl’s conviction, who* sat in 
daily judgment on such of their fellows as were exposed? 
Were they not as full of evil as the thieves, the mur- 
derers, the libertines of the wo-rld? They did not rob, 
or rape, or kill, or counterfeit, because these crimes were 
listed, and those who' committed them were dragged forth 
for the multitudes to snap at. But is not the multitude 
that snaps as evil as its victim? 

A week passed before he saw how illogical his attitude 
was. Here was he, reviling those who reviled. He 
smiled bitterly and endeavoured to bring order to his 
thoughts. 


211 




THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


One evening Judge Preston sent for Adams, and re- 
ceived him with oppressive politeness. 

“I asked you to come,” he said, “because I wish to be 
just with you. I was greatly shocked by the sentiments 
you expressed before me recently, and I may have been 
unduly moved by them. Mr. Vandemere has caused me 
to feel that I may have been. He seems to think that a 
man of your temperament may readily be carried away 
by his theme, and, in the heat of argument, or under the 
influence of his own oratory, go much farther than his 
cooler judgment would approve. I realise with him that 
you are a young man, and one subject to enthusiasms. 
Now, Mr. Adams, you must know that both Mr. Vande- 
mere and myself take the warmest personal interest in 
you. We have entertained great hopes for your future, 
and have not hesitated to assist in its swift fulfillment. I' 
hope that we may continue to do so. Surely, a young 
man of your gifts and prospects can have no real sym- 
pathy with revolutionary ideas.” 

Adams knew that he had reached a deciding point in 
his career. The judge was asking him to declare him- 
self. He was, in reality, saying: 

“Do you propose to advocate such doctrines? If so, 
I am through with you. If not, I will bring you pros- 
perity.” 

He looked at the judge for a moment, trying to con- 
trol his rising resentment. He was able to speak quietly, 
but his voice was low and intense as he said : 

“I would like to ask you a question, judge, if I may.” 

“Certainly. What is it?” 

“Were you not, at one time, during the trial of Karl 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 213 

Fischer, favourably considering a suspension of sen- 
tence?” 

The judge was not pleased by this question, but he 
answered it truthfully. 

“I was.” 

“Then why did you so suddenly condemn him?” 

“I believe,” said the judge, grimly, an angry gleam 
lighting his deep-set eyes, “that I gave you my reason 
when I sentenced him.” 

“You sent this man to six years at hard labour in the 
penitentiary in a fit of rage at me !” 

Adams rose hastily as he spoke, all his restrained 
amazement and indignation rushing to his eyes and lips 
and driving the blood to his cheeks. 

“You profess to be incorruptible, and yet your pas- 
sions and prejudices have corrupted you. You would 
scorn to giver or take a bribe. What is this friendly 
overture to me but a bribe?” 

He did not wait for the effect of this outburst, but left 
the house and strode hurriedly, blindly, up the street. 
He would not submit to the drift of the world, and seek 
only to find a comfortable place in it. Luxury, power, 
the love of a wife, were not for* him. To have these 
things, one* must serve the masters of the world, or be- 
come one. How was it possible that he had been blind 
to the mockery of life so long? How could intelligent 
beings laugh and chatter and enjoy their comforts? how 
could they worship in costly temples and talk of virtue 
in their fine homes when want and misery shuffled past 
their doors? 

With such thoughts he walked the streets for hours. 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


2U 

We will never know of the multitudes who have passed 
through the Garden of Gethsemane unnoticed. For 
every voice raised in warning or appeal, of sufficient vol- 
ume for the world to hear, there are thousands of sighs 
and murmurings, burdened with the same import, that 
carry no further than the lips of the one who breathes 
them. 

He returned to his room in the morning and threw 
himself on his bed, exhausted. 

During these days of his anxiety Lou had watched 
with mingled feelings. She came to realise, in a dim 
way, the emotions that were assailing him, and before 
the week had passed she felt only a tender sympathy for 
his distress. She had not seen him alone since the trial, 
but she was determined to do so now ; he looked so tired 
and heartsick. She must comfort him. She signalled 
her wish at the breakfast table, and he met her on her 
way to the studio. 

“Ed,” she said, “why are you so troubled?” 

“I don’t know what to do. I wanted to talk with you, 
and yet I thought I ought not. It was good of you to 
let me see you again.” 

“Now, Ed, you know that I am horrid. I am a selfish, 
cynical creature, and I wonder that you do not despise 
me.” 

“I love you, Lou. I am going away. I have quar- 
relled with Judge Preston, and I had better get away and 
be alone until I have found my place *in the world, if I 
have one. I don’t know what to do.” 

She left him at the door* of the studio without a word. 
She could say nothing to him. Her cheeks were colour- 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 


215 


less, her eyes were filled with distress, but he was blind 
to all this. He could only see displeasure in her silence. 
He should not have told her that he loved her. What 
could she do but feel contempt for one so moved by half- 
formed conceptions and desires? He turned back with 
these bitter thoughts, and hastily packing his things, 
left the house. 

When Lou returned at noon and found that he was 
gone she* was surprised and angry. Whatever his 
troubles were, it seemed to her that he might bear them. 
For the time being she looked upon him as he had con- 
ceived himself to be, a man with uncertain conceptions 
and desires. She attempted to dismiss him from her 
thought, with more of scorn than pity, and during the 
weeks that followed she thought that she had done so. 

More than a month passed before the truth that lay 
beneath her subterfuge was revealed to her. It came 
through her mother. One day Mrs. Storrs returned 
from a visit to Mrs. Vandemere in that state of sup- 
pressed elation which comes to such natures when their 
suspicions have been justified. 

“Well,” she said, “I have found out. at last why Mr. 
Adams left us so abruptly.” 

The animus in her voice and manner pierced through 
Loufs pretences and sent her heart to the defence. She 
looked at her mother, listening intently for the revela- 
tion she knew was coming. 

“To think,” said Mrs. Storrs,. “that we could have 
been so deceived !” 

She was endeavouring to correct the effect that her 
own leaning toward Adams might have had upon Lou. 


216 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


She realised now, in a way, that she had permitted con- 
siderable freedom, between Mr. Adams and her daughter, 
when his prospects looked so favourable. 

Lou perceived her purpose, and could no longer re- 
strain her impatience. 

“What happened, mamma?” she said. “What did 
he do?” 

“Why, it seems, my dear, that he made a most ridicu- 
lous defence of that o-ld counterfeiter who returned my 
purse, and afterwards he made an outrageous attack on 
Judge Preston in. his c*wn house. You may be sure he 
was promptly dismissed. The man, my dear, is simply a 
charlatan, and we have had a fortunate escape.” 

This abuse served only to call before* Lou’s mind a 
vivid picture of Adams as she knew* him. She recalled 
his long* days of trouble* over Karl. She found herself 
listening again to the* gentleness of his plea in court, to 
Judge Preston’s stern rebuke. She remembered his 
broken state afterwards. And now his prophecy had 
come true. He was out. 

In her- own soul she felt that this defeat was his justi- 
fication. Where was he now? How ineffective had been 
her response to the* calls upon her sympathy. She had 
gone to him before, and* with his first appeal involving a 
possible disappointment to herself, had grown cold and 
unresponsive. She said' nothing to her mother, but went 
to her own room. A11‘ of her selfish cynicism had been 
swept away. 

She hastily wrote a note asking him to meet her the 
* following afternoon by the clock in front of the Fifth 
Avenue Hotel. They had met there often before. 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 


217 


It was afternoon of a beautiful spring day. The 
earth of Madison Square was carpeted with soft green. 
Already the trees were thickly leaved, and under their 
shade hundreds were resting. There were old, weary 
souls sunning on the benches, children playing in new 
frocks, the idlers of the neighbourhood and the hurrying 
pedestrians of longer errands delighted in a glimpse 
of tenderness and beauty in the hard and crowded heart. 
Along Broadway and Fifth avenue thousands were 
idling. 

Adams came up at the appointed hour and joined in 
that new wonder which is as old as the world — the spring. 
Over the green of the Square soared the fair, sharp 
shaft of Madison Square tower. The golden Diana of 
the winds was arrow south and west, as if indicating to 
the wondering city the source and secret of all this fair- 
ness and light. Cabs moved lazily by, their drivers’ 
seats crowded with steamer trunks and bags, their occu- 
pants staring a mild farewell upon the mart which they 
were leaving. Actors and actresses, the earliest of the 
returning host that gives Broadway its fanciful aspect 
in summer, were passing here and there, the novelty and 
daring of* their attire making them conspicuous among 
the common throng. Devotees of fashion, in conserva- 
tive blues and grays ; men in high hats and flowery waist- 
coats ; grim, weary figures, beaten by all the storms of 
winter, but smiling in frayed trousers on a world grown 
kind, served to give that contrast, that last touch of 
variety which soothes and strengthens and brightens the 
mind, sweeping it with emotion and making it gentle, 
tender and merciful. But Adams, so newly awakened, 


218 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


saw only the tragedy in the contrast. In his morbid 
mood it aroused the passion of a fanatic. 

Standing on the corner, and threading the throng 
with their trays, were young Greeks, selling violets and 
lilies of the valley. One o-f these paused by Adams. The 
incense of the flowers revived in him the spirit of the 
lover. He carefully scanned the tray, and selecting the 
most perfect,. paid the half-dollar required. Holding the 
violets in his hand, he thought of Lou. “They are but 
a shade darker than her* eyes.” Then he turned wist- 
fully in th.e direction she must. come. She was so small 
that he must look.’ closely to see her. He had learned to 
pick her alpine hat among the multitude who passed, and 
turned, and passed again. 

At last he saw it — the first fleck of its band of blue 
veiling. He put the violets in her hand and looked down 
upon her, his eyes filled with the gratitude he felt at her 
coming. In her upturned face he perceived something 
new. All the soft beauty of the spring — tender, hope- 
ful, full of promise. Her soul was surely there, generous 
in its unstinted and unquestioning sympathy. She looked 
at him frankly. 

“Ed,” she said, “I want you to take me to the park.” 

They walked quietly together across the street to Fifth 
avenue, and stopping the first ’bus that came, climbed 
to the seats on top. Adams was wonderfully conscious 
of her mood. He had felt something of it at times be- 
fore. That which was peculiar now was his sense of its 
abiding quality. She looked at him as one who would not 
turn away. 

“It is for the whole afternoon,” she said, slipping her 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 


219 


hand in his, “and, first of all,” she added, “I want to 
tell you that I understand now why you went away. It 
was all right. I thought I was angry. You told me, 
Ed, that you loved me, and I let you go as if I did not 
care. I am glad that you love me.” 

Adams’ lips trembled in spite of himself, and he held 
her hand very close. He could make no reply. He be- 
lieved that this was to be their last day together, and 
her confession, sweet as it was, troubled him. 

The long avenue stretched before them, crowded with 
open carriages and coupes. Pedestrians idled in the 
sun, for it was not too warm. A policeman, swinging his 
club as if beating a rhythm; a gentleman flicking his 
cane as if he were happy in the mere pleasure of doing 
so; a nurse-girl, with daintily clothed children making 
their way parkward, moved like pleasant phantoms 
through a sunny, unreal world. 

They came to the entrance-way at Fifty-ninth street, 
and getting down, walked along one of the shaded paths 
to a lake, and f rom there to the meadow, where the sheep 
were grazing. The idlers sunning by the way, the chil- 
dren in the path, the sheep upon the lawn — all contrib- 
uted to fill them with a sense of the beauty of the world. 
A golden ball and numerous signboards indicated where 
they might not wander, but the broad vista, with its 
curves and trees, was all they desired. 

“Let us sit here,” said Lou. 

On the far side of the meadow, beyond the park, rose 
the high, uneven architecture of Eighth avenue. In this 
clean, clear atmosphere, looking across the wide, green 
stretch of grass, the fanciful nature of the home life of 


220 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

the city seemed far removed from all things sordid and 
earthly. 

“Now, Ed,” said Lou, turning her eyes to him in- 
quiringly, “you must tell me where you are living and 
what you are doing.” 

Her words recalled him, and from the grass and 
flowers, the earth’s soft contour, his mind came back to 
grim humanity and to himself. The things about him 
might well tempt him to speak of love, but the things 
he had left and must return to, held him from it. 

“I live in a hall bed-room,” he said, “for which I pay 
two dollars a week. I get my own meals in my room. I 
have found nothing to do since the trial that seemed to 
me worth while. I am going away.” 

He closed his lips firmly, and his face, losing the light 
which her coming had brought to it, betrayed the 
ravages the last few months had made. He no longer 
saw the park or the fanciful sky-line beyond it. 

“A man should not be idle,” he said; “that I know, 
but I don’t know what to do. I am going home. I can 
work on the farm and try and think things out.” 

Lou could not reproach him now. She saw that he was 
sick. She did not question the wisdom of his attitude, 
for she had come to see that she did not understand a 
man’s battle with the world; how could she plead with 
him, then? The thought of his going from her was a 
wound to her heart, but she recognised it now for what 
it was. She watched his face, distressed by the change, 
and thought only of lifting him from his despondency. 
She had brought him here for a pleasant afternoon, and 
he should have it. That was the first thing. 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 221 

She patted his hand very much as she would have done 
that of a child in its distress. 

“How foolish of us, Ed,” she said, “to have brought 
your old hall bed-room into such a place.” 

He lifted his head and looked about him, seeing the 
pleasant world again. The sheep were herding peace- 
fully upon the lawn, the ants were toiling along the warm 
walk at their feet. 

“A man must not be idle,” he repeated; for this 
phrase, grown familiar to him in the mental groping of 
these days, was recalled by creatures busy with their 
needs. 

“But you have not been idle,” said Lou, reassuringly, 
“and you will not be.” 

“Do you know what that means ?” he asked, savagely. 

“Why,” she faltered, “what does it mean?” 

“That I must sell my soul for a little worldly glory 
and a few years of good feeding, or die in the streets, 
shouting, ‘Thieves, hypocrites !’ ” 

Lou recoiled from this outburst. 

He relapsed into moody brooding until Lou, realising 
again that she was there because he needed her, took his 
hand and moved closer to him. 

He was not altogether conscious of what she did, but 
he was influenced by it. He became more rational. 

“It is strange,” he said, “how long and ardently a 
man can pursue nothing ! I have always worked hard. 
When I was a boy I worked in the summer at a man’s 
work, and every winter I walked three miles to a district 
school, doing the night and morning chores beside. I 
paid my own way through college, sleeping over a stable 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


and taking care of the horses for my board. During 
vacations I tramped fifteen and twenty miles a day, can- 
vassing. I # slept in the field when no bed was offered me. 
At noon, if the farmer’s wife did not ask me to dinner, 
I ate my bread and bacon by the roadside. I wrote verses 
on the margin of my prospectus. I tramped the coun- 
try roads, singing. The way was so plain. Thousands 
had secured all that I coveted. Success was certain for 
the strong, and I felt my strength. And I am not 
ashamed of those years. I was poor and ignorant, seek- 
ing knowledge. My ambition was neither vain nor cruel. 
The glory of the world allured me, for I believed it to be 
a beautiful world, and that all those who were worthy 
might partake of its joy and luxury. What a dream! 
Success brought me complaisance, self-indulgence. Karl 
Fischer! Every day I have passed such men upon the 
street and have not noticed them. When he has served 
his term, what is left for him? He will join the swarm 
of wretches that fill the benches of the parks. How 
often I have sauntered past them, wondering why a gen- 
tleman of my superior state must endure the sight. 

“This is a fine city, Lou, but its radiance is not 
glorious ; it is the cold glint of selfishness and greed.” 

This tirade was spoken slowly, intensely. It was an 
expression of despair. Lou sat quietly close to him, her 
hand in his. She felt that since these thoughts were fill- 
ing his mind he had better be rid of them. A multitude 
of voices in her own heart were crying to be heard, but 
she would not listen. 

He had put into words, at last, the substance of his 
brooding. Those words — how heavily they fell! As 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 


223 


they formed upon his lips they appeared to him 
formidable, absolute. But, behold what sympathy can 
do ! In the long silence that followed they seemed to melt 
away. In their places came the sleepy piping of the 
birds. He felt the hand that was resting quietly in his. 
He sighed and closed his eyes as one who, after a day 
of heat and toil, finds comfort in the twilight. 

The shadows fell, and with them a deepening sense of 
impending return and separation. As they were walk- 
ing slowly toward the gate Adams stopped. 

“I hate to go,” he said. 

“We can stay, Ed, if you wish to.” 

He took his money from his pocket and counted it. 

“All right. We’ll have our dinner here.” 

Since he had told her he was going she had not spoken 
to him concerning it. She had tried not to think of this. 
Had they returned at sunset she might have controlled 
her emotions and let him have his way to the last, leaving 
him with only a smiling, tender assurance of her sym- 
pathy. 

It was night, however, when they dismounted from the 
’bus in Washington Square. The walks and benches 
were deserted. The surrounding houses were dark. It 
seemed to Lou that an unusual desolation had settled 
over the world. A few steps more and she would be alone. 
This strong, gentle being by her side, beset with uncer- 
tainty and cast out though he was, had become for her 
at once the stay and burden of her affections. In a mo- 
ment he would leave her, perhaps, forever. He was 
going to another source for the quietness and comfort 
;he should give him. She stopped abruptly and sat down 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


224 

upon a bench near the arch, covering her face with her 
hands. In a moment he was beside her. 

She put her arms about his neck, pleading with him 
not to go. She unconsciously pressed against him, and 
clung to him, as if fearing to let him go. 

“Ed,” she sobbed, “let me live with you and help you. 
You love me. You love me. Oh, how can you go?” 

For a moment he was swept away by blind impulse. 
He held her in his arms, and the everlasting battle of the 
world raged within him. The soulless genius of nature, 
a thing of energy, beheld the propitious moment and 
hung over them impatiently. Of what use to it are the 
considerations of the soul? 

But Adams loved her, this being not quite a girl, not 
yet a woman, and above the tumult of his senses he heard 
the voice of affection, gentle in its persuasion, and it 
prevailed, because he was generous and because ex- 
perience had made him thoughtful. 

She had offered herself to him in a mood of self-for- 
getfulness. But how could he dream again of a happy 
love in so discordant a world? Could he abandon his 
half-formed projects of appeal, denunciation and sacri- 
fice? What of this girl beside him? In this vague con- 
ception of sacrifices and service, where was she? How 
futile his efforts for Karl Fischer had been. Had he 
then become a fanatical dreamer, worthless to himself 
and others, staring at imaginary tasks, unfitted for the 
real ones? He had seen such men. Desolate figures they 
were, suffering without avail, sowing what none could 
harvest, lifting discordant voices, and if effective at all, 
adding only to the tumult of the world. Figures of half- 


LOVE AND CHIVALRY 


225 


crazed street preachers, agitators, strong in their 
dogmas, and wandering dreamers of far distant times, 
pathetic in their gentleness, passed before him. These 
were the people of Chimera. Was that the land toward 
which his face was turned? 

“Oh, Ed,” she whispered, “I love you. Do not go.” 

His heart leaped at the sound, for this voice was real. 
She felt his emotion, and pressing her hands upon his 
cheeks, looked into his eyes. 

“You will not go?” she whispered. 

“You have been my salvation,” he murmured, 
brokenly. “I shall go home now for a little rest, and 
when I return we will be married.” 

Something like a cold wave passed over Lou. She 
drew away from him and sat stiffly against the back of 
the seat. 

“That sounds awfully like business,” she said, rue- 
fully. 

“Why, Lou — how would you have a night like this 
end?” 

“I suppose,” she said, looking blankly at him, “that 
it should come to that — but I had not thought of it — • 
I don’t know that I like it.” 

“I don’t see why you should,” he replied, earnestly. 
“Why should you?” 

He got up and held out his hand. “Good-bye.” 

She looked up anxiously. 

“When are you going?” 

“In the morning.” 

“When are you coming back?” 

“Why?” 


226 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Now, Ed, don’t be cross with me. I do love you — I 
must , or I wouldn’t — I wouldn’t — you know ” 

She blushed and questioned him with her eyes anxious- 
ly. He took her hands and drew her to him. 

“I know, my dear,” he said, softly. “You ought to 
think about it.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t go, and I need not think.” 

When they separated at last Lou discovered that her 
cheeks were moist with tears. 

Emotion such as this was a new experience for her. 
She walked home in a dream, subdued, softened, but 
strangely happy. Questions lurked in the background, 
troublesome doubts, but her mind was lulled into a sleep 
of dreams. She did not dread the scene that might be 
awaiting her. The future was elsewhere, not here, for her. 

“I was with Dora,” she told her mother, and, without 
waiting to see if she were believed, went to her room. 

In the morning she was thoughtful and not very sure 
about it all. There were moments when the events of yes- 
terday seemed not experiences of her own. She thought 
at first that she would tell Dora — it would be strange not 
to, but she did not tell her. Engaged? How singular! 
What would marriage be? She turned cold and could 
not talk about it. 

She had told him that he must not write to her be- 
cause it would make trouble at home. But as the days 
passed and she could not bring herself to talk of him, 
she felt his absence, his silence and her loneliness. She 
was so eager for life and had seen so little of it! An elf 
she was, adrift on a roseleaf, hoping for adventures, and 
yet fearing the sounds of the sea. 


CHAPTER XVI. \ 

REDEMPTION FROM A BALCONY. 

W HEN Karl Fischer was sent to the peniten- 
tiary, William Roeting for a time took an 
interest in the affairs of his family. He 
understood that Karl’s savings were held temporarily by 
the court and would be turned over to him in trust. So 
long as he believed this he felt a complacent sorrow for 
Karl and looked upon his fate as a surprising misfor- 
tune. He shook his head ponderously, sighed, said very 
little about the matter and waited for the money, in- 
tending to invest it in a little scheme of speculation that 
had long been tempting him. When, however, he was 
informed that Karl’s treasure consisted of counterfeits, 
and that he had left no good money at all, his disgust 
and anger knew no bounds. Karl was not only a coun- 
terfeiter, his relation who had disgraced him, but a liar 
and a thief. He began to look upon the whole family 
with suspicion. 

Mrs. Fischer learning now, for the first time, that all 
the money they had saved was gone, crawled from her 
bed and compelled herself to take in washing, to go out 
scrubbing, to bake and sell bread. She began to save for 
the future of Emeline and Thekla. 

227 


MS THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

Emeline had been a year in the tailoring establishment 
on Fifth avenue, and her employer was beginning to find 
her valuable to him. She was now receiving fifteen dol- 
lars a week as one of the assistant saleswomen. Her 
matured form, her dark and solemn beauty was exceed- 
ingly impressive, and her keen ambition kept her alive 
to every opportunity. She did not increase her con- 
tribution to the family, however. She thought that two 
dollars a week was enough to pay for her mean accom- 
modation. It was enough that she stayed with them. 
With the money she had saved, and the wages she now 
earned, she could easily have left, finding better quarters 
elsewhere, and she was constantly irritated by the sense 
of duty that still held her there. 

Thekla now earned from six to seven dollars a week 
in the feather factory and gave it all to her mother. 
She did not often think of her father when she was away 
from home, for then the life about was too engrossing 
and her whole joy-loving nature was too alert for what 
delight it could find. She wanted her mother and Eme- 
line to be happy, and she would never weary in making 
them so if she could find the way. When she was alone 
with her mother she knew that her thoughts were of 
Karl, and her own heart opened to an inflowing of 
tender memories and desires. 

“I wish we could see him,” Katrina would say with a 
quavering voice. “How far is it to Sing Sing?” she 
asked one day. 

“It is not so very far,” answered Thekla. “In the fall 
when it is cool and fine we will go and see him. We can 
walk there in a day or two, I guess.” 


REDEMPTION FROM A BALCONY 229 


“Can we do that, Thekla?” 

“Of course we can. People will let us ride in their 
waggons.” 

But in spite of her courage and love the poor old 
woman was growing more feeble. She worked patiently, 
but slowly. She could sleep but little, and there were 
days when she scarcely ate. The heat of the summer 
sapped her strength. During July and August there 
were nights when, had she remained in her stifling bed- 
room, she would not have come out again. In the even- 
ings Thekla would take her to the Square and find a 
place for her on the grass, under a tree, in the quieter 
eastern half. Here she would sit with other women of 
the neighbourhood until she fell asleep. Later, Thekla 
would return, and making her comfortable for the night, 
lie down beside her. 

For the last three years, since Dennis Malone and Mike 
O’Hagan had been on that beat, the rules of the Square 
had been suspended during the hot nights of July and 
August. All night long people dozed on the benches or 
stretched themselves on the grass for the sound and sweet 
sleep impossible in the stifling tenements. 

The two officers watched the beat on alternate nights. 
They were very much alike in their natures and physique, 
tall, broad-shouldered, big in body, their heavy smooth- 
shaven faces expressive of a rough, bullying good na- 
ture. Dennis Malone took his position in the world se- 
riously, looking upon his beat as his absolute monarchy. 
The people of this neighbourhood lived by his indul- 
gence, but because of his keen, crude sympathies, he 
granted them many liberties and permitted them to be 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


m 

happy in their own way so long as they did not kill or 
rob one another, or slight his own dignity. 

These hot nights he strolled along the walks of the 
Square, swinging his club by its string, scanning the 
people sleeping on the benches. Here was one sitting 
sidewise, his arm over the back, his head bent forward, 
his battered hat on the back of his head. Another was 
sprawled out, his legs extending into the walk, his head 
falling limply backward, the blue electric light turning 
his unhealthy, upturned face a ghastly hue. Here was 
a little, gentle-faced old man, with a young boy curled 
up beside him, and there a big fellow with mortar on his 
clothes, snoring heavily. Now and then Dennis would 
pick up a hat that had fallen into the walk and clap it on 
the head of the owner, saying if he woke up, “Keep your 
hat on there.” If some one were in danger of tumbling 
from the bench he would tap his shoulder or move him 
into a safer position. He frequently left the walks and 
strolled across the lawn, looking over the men stretched 
out in this group, the women in that. If he found some 
man lying out on the lawn alone, he would tell him to 
move up nearer one of the groups of men. He never in- 
terfered with the women, but if some mother, with her 
baby at her breast and her children on the ground about 
her, had chosen a tree by herself, he kept a watchful eye 
on her to see that she was not disturbed. 

On very hot nights several hundred people slept in the 
park, and even the young people of the neighbourhood 
were allowed to remain in it. 

To the residents on the north side, the Square, vulgar 
and offensive at all times, became intolerable during July 


REDEMPTION FROM A BALCONY 231 


and August. Most of them were away from the city 
during these months, but those who remained abused the 
laxity of the officials who permitted such things to be. A 
few scattering complaints had been made the first and 
second summers, but nothing had come of them. The 
immorality of the Square at all times was a favourite dis- 
cussion with Mrs. Storrs and her household. These 
people sleeping on the benches, hundreds of men and 
women sprawling out on the grass, in sight of each 
other and the world, these boys and girls wandering 
about at all hours of the night, formed an outrageous 
spectacle. 

“It is our own fault,” Mr. Truesdale would say, “our 
own fault. If respectable people would band together 
and make a vigorous enough protest, they could rid any 
community of its indecency. The wicked flourish be- 
cause of the inactivity of the good.” 

This summer, a general movement was started in Mrs. 
Storrs’ house. Mr. Truesdale drew up a protest, and 
all the boarders signed it. It was then taken from door 
to door, receiving the signatures of all who were at home 
in the block. It was carried by Mr. Truesdale, Mrs. 
Storrs and Mrs. McClaren to the Mayor’s office. They 
were very much incensed because his Honour was engaged 
at the time, and could not see them personally, but they 
left it with the clerk, with many strong verbal additions. 
The matter was turned over to the police department, 
and the chief decided that a week or so of rigour in that 
quarter would not harm any one, and might do him some 
good among the reputable classes. An order was sent 
down the line. 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


2S2 

One evening, as Dennis Malone was standing by the 
fountain, Mike O’Hagan strolled into the Square and 
joined him. 

“I say, Dennie, what do you think of the new order ?” 

“Oh, that don’t mean nothing.” 

“It don’t, eh? Well, they mean it, all right. I just 
come from headquarters.” 

Dennis preserved a non-committal silence, looking 
gravely at nothing with a calm, wise eye. 

“The sergeant will be around here to-night. You’d 
better clean ’em out.” 

“Look-a-here, Mike,” said Dennis, turning suddenly 
toward the other. “You’re not going to drive these poor 
devils into their ovens, are you?” 

“What can you do, Dennie? They mean business this 
time.” 

“What put ’em up to it, then ?” 

“Oh, the good guys over the way.” 

“Well, I’ll be hung before I run ’em out. You won’t, 
either, Mike. I’ll not think it of ye.” 

“It’s a bad job,” assented Mike. 

“I’ll never do it. Your old mother, Mike, and mine 
would be sitting there wit’ them women but for their bein’ 
in the old country.” 

That night, as usual, Dennis strolled through the 
Square, swinging his club, keeping watch over the sleep- 
ers. 

At half-past twelve, he saw the sergeant coming 
briskly toward him. 

“Why haven’t you cleaned out the Square?” he de- 
manded sharply. 


REDEMPTION FROM A BALCONY 233 


“I couldn’t do it, sir.” 

“What do you mean by that ?” 

“Look over there, sergeant,” said Dennis, earnestly, 
pointing toward a group of twenty or more women on 
the lawn. All about them were children stretched on 
the grass asleep. Two or three mothers were sitting up 
nursing their babies. It was a sweltering night, even 
here, where a slight breeze was stirring, but in the small, 
crowded rooms of these people it would be almost impos- 
sible to live. 

“I can’t help that,” said the sergeant, brusquely. 
“You must obey the orders.” 

“Well, I won’t do it, then,” said Dennis, flatly. “I’ll 
give up me beat first.” 

The sergeant eyed him savagely. “You’ll give up 
your beat, all right,” he commented as he walked away. 

Three days later, two new men were assigned to Wash- 
ington Square. Dennis and Mike were laid off for one 
month, without pay, and heavily fined. They were then 
given one of the desolate outlying beats at the north end 
of the island. The police authorities can discipline their 
force effectively when they see fit. 

The two new men were of the sort to rigorously en- 
force the rules. 

It was so insufferably hot these nights, that most of 
the Storrs household remained up very late. They sat 
on the balconies, with the windows open behind them. 

“Your petition don’t seem to have had much effect,” 
said Mr. McClaren, one evening. He was seated with 
his family and the Waudelle sisters in one balcony, while 
Mrs. Storrs, Amy, Lou and Mr. Truesdale occupied the 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


£34 

other. He leaned back in his chair, fanned himself with 
a large palm leaf and looked banteringly over to Mrs. 
Storrs. Across the street, the Square was teeming with 
life. It was about ten o’clock, and the crowd was as 
great as on a concert night in the pleasant spring. 

“No,” said Mrs. Storrs, “it is astonishing how hard it 
is to do any good. You would think that a great city 
like New York might at least enforce its own laws.” 

“I see by the papers,” said Susanne, “that a great 
reform movement is being started.” 

“Nothing will come of it,” said Mr. Truesdale. 

“Why do all such movements fail, I wonder?” 

“From indifference. That is the curse of this coun- 
try. There are enough church members to-day to run 
every city in America, to secure absolute control of af- 
fairs, politically and socially, if they would. The con- 
sciences of our good people need to be aroused if we 
expect to survive the growth of evil.” 

“Why are they so indifferent?” asked Mrs. Win- 
thrope. 

“Because they are altogether selfish, and what energy 
they possess they devote to money getting and to pleas- 
ure. I have to go about like a beggar to get the money 
for our society, and it is never possible to get a hun- 
dredth part of what we need. With the right spirit 
abroad in this luxurious city, we should have more money 
for charity than we could use. I speak very plainly to 
these people. It is my mission to stir up the good, for 
they need it, and there are few who will do it.” 

“Do you think, then, Mr. Truesdale,” asked Lou, 
“that selfish and greedy people are the good people?” 


REDEMPTION FROM A BALCONY 235 


“Of course, not,” said Mr. Truesdale. “What I 
mean is this ” 

“It seems to me,” said Mr. McClaren, “that something 
is happening in the Square.” 

“I declare,” cried Mrs. Storrs, “they are cleaning it 
out. Well, that surprises me.” Her eyes sparkled with 
delight. When you are able to sit on your balcony and 
see five hundred people ordered about at your bidding, 
it produces a sense of power. 

“Well, well,” she said, bending eagerly forward, “just 
look at them go.” She laughed at the comical spectacle 
of a crowd of women scurrying over the grass like 
frightened animals, carrying their babies upside down 
in their haste, dragging their children by their 
arms, and looking anxiously back at the huge officer 
who was shooing them off as he would a flock of old 
hens. 

Certain that they would not loiter, the officer came over 
to the walk along the north side and began to clear the 
benches, waking up the sleepers by a shake of the shoul- 
ders. 

Suddenly he stopped and looked in among the bushes 
filling the wide space between the walk and the fence. 
In a moment he was over the bench and crashing through 
them. There was a moment of struggle, and a boy 
broke out of the bushes, holding his head with both 
hands. He tumbled over the fence and fled, staggering 
down the street. The officer came out, pushing a girl 
before him by the shoulders. She was crying and swear- 
ing loudly, and making futile efforts to wrench away or 
to turn and reach him with her fists. 


236 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


As Lou looked upon this scene, she became deathly 
pale. Her eyes dilated in horror. 

“Oh, oh ” she cried, jumping to her feet, “what 

is it?” 

“Go inside,” exclaimed Mrs. Storrs, coming suddenly 
to her senses. “Come, all of you girls, go in.” She 
hastily retired, followed by the other ladies. 

Lou hurried upstairs to her room, and looked out of 
the window. The boy had fallen on the sidewalk, and 
was trying vainly to get up, one hand clasped to his 
head. The officer was trying to get to him, but the 
struggling girl held him back. A crowd was gathering. 

The girl was Thekla, the boy was Tom Earny. 
When Tom came to, he began to struggle violently, and 
broke away. 

“Where is he?” he asked, looking wildly about him. 
The crowd had backed off, and stood gazing from a dis- 
tance. 

“You’re all right; be quiet now,” said Pat, taking 
his arm. 

“Where is Thekla?” demanded Tom. 

“The cop got her.” 

“My God, Pat, did I run away?” 

“You did, Tom, but your head was cracked.” 

“Where are they now?” 

“Ike went with them. He’ll give the cop ten dollars, 
and get her off.” 

The three boys hurried through the Square and up 
University Place. Just beyond the corner they met Ike. 

“Where is Thekla?” 

“He took my money and pulled his gun on me.” 


REDEMPTION FROM A BALCONY 237 


The four walked home dejectedly. There was a 
crowd about the fountain, talking of the new order and 
the arrest. 

“Come away, Maggie,” said Anna, “there is Tom. I 
don’t want to speak to him.” 

“He couldn’t help it,” said Maggie. “The cop almost 
clubbed him to death.” 

“Served him right,” exclaimed Anna, disdainfully. 
“It’s a shame the way Thekla acts. But I never thought 
she was so bad. It’s a disgrace to us. Father will be 
furious and will likely keep Alice and me inside now.” 

“Oh, you make me tired,” said Maggie, turning her 
back. 

She was sorry for Thekla, but she was more fright- 
ened than grieved. She was glad it was not herself who 
had been caught. The only effect of this was that when 
she and Pat wished to be alone, they found a more se- 
cluded place than the Square. 

The officer took Thekla to the police station, and re- 
turning with two reserves, cleaned out the Square. 

For a long time that night Lou leaned from her win- 
dow and gazed down upon the scene of the tragedy. It 
had occurred not far from the bench where she had been 
with Mr. Adams. 


CHAPTER XVn. 


BABES IN THE WOOD . 

T HE next morning Lou could not get up for break- 
fast. When she came down, late, she went to 
the kitchen in the basement for a cup of coffee 
and she heard the voice of their washerwoman running 
in a broken wail through the vigorous counsels and com- 
ments of her mother. 

“It is a terrible thing, Mrs. Fischer, but it is certainly 
fortunate that your daughter’s career has been checked. 
I am sorry for your sake that she was arrested.” 

“Tekla, Tekla — oh, vas iss it tey vill do mit her?” 

“My poor, dear woman, I don’t wonder at your grief. 
But you see you were not able to guide her yourself, and 
it may be that God ” 

“Vas iss it tey vill do? Tey haf her Fahter tooken 

and her, too, yet. Ach — ach ” 

“She will be taken to the Gerry Society, and they will 
bring her before a magistrate and have her committed 
to some institution, where she will be properly trained. 
You must not object to this, Mrs. Fischer, for, hard as it 
is, it will be for her good. You see, my poor woman, 
you have no control at all over this overgrown, head- 
strong girl. She runs about at all hours and with all 
kinds of people. No wonder 


BABES IN THE WOOD 239 

“I must haf her back jet ! Vere iss she — vere haf tey 
tooken her?” 

“You must not try to get her back. Must I tell you 
that your daughter is a bad girl, and that you are not 
fit to have charge of her? You have come to me for 
help, and I will help you, but you must be guided by me. 
I tell you now, Mrs. Fischer, that if you object I will 
myself go to the authorities and have her properly dis- 
posed of.” 

“Mamma,” said Lou, coming suddenly into the kitch- 
en, pale with emotion, “how can you say such things! 
Thekla is not a bad girl. She is no worse than I am, 
not a bit.” 

“What do you mean, Lou, by such language? Go up- 
stairs.” 

“Won’t you listen to me, mamma? I used to go to 
school with Thekla. Don’t send her to one of those ter- 
rible places. Bring her here ” 

“Lou,” said Mrs. Storrs, “you don’t know what you 
are talking about. Go upstairs, do you hear me? Go 
upstairs.” 

Lou turned about quickly, and left the room. Her 
face was flushed with excitement, her eyes unusually 
bright. She put on her hat and went out, walking rap- 
idly up Fifth avenue, and across Twenty-first street 
to Gramercy Park. She found Dora in her own home, 
and passionately described to her the scene of the 
night before, her horror and pity then, when she 
did not know that it was Thekla, and the shock of that 
morning, when she discovered her to be her childish 
heroine. 


240 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Dora put her arms about her, and her cheek to hers. 
She was too much distressed to speak and she did not 
know what to say. 

“How helpless I am,” exclaimed Lou. “My mother 
brushed me aside like a foolish child. And what 
could I do, anyway? Suppose Thekla were brought 
to our house? I cannot endure it there myself, and 
for a girl like her it would be worse than a reform- 
atory.” 

“Why do such things happen in the world?” mur- 
mured Dora. 

“How do I know?” Lou spoke petulantly because of 
the irritating thoughts that beset her. She did not 
know why such things happened, but now suddenly she 
did know why she had escaped. The brutality of last 
night’s scene had shattered the romance of that other 
night. She could no longer dream of it with a secret, 
languorous delight, for the soft glow through which she 
beheld it vaguely had been changed into a pitiless glare 
by Thekla’s loud exposure. Here was the whole play 
enacted, without concealment, with nothing left for a 
subtle fancy to adorn. She was a fool. She shuddered 
at herself and at the thought of Adams. He had been 
honourable, but in the self-abasement of the thought she 
hated him. 

All this passed through her mind hastily. And what 
was she doing these days? Simply waiting for him to 
take her away. Why was she willing to marry him? 
The idea of marriage made her cold. She loved Ed, she 
surely must have loved him, or why should she have acted 
so? But the thought of marriage was endurable only 


241 


BABES IN THE WOOD 

because by it she could escape from home. This was 
contemptible. 

“Dora,” she said, “I have decided to leave home and 
go to work.” 

She felt that with this decision, a little self-respect 
had returned to her. 

“But, Lou — how can you? Will your mother con- 
sent? I wish I could help you, Lou.” 

“Of course, she will not consent. There will be a 
scene, but I shall do as I say.” 

“Are you sure you are right, Lou? It frightens me 
to think of your leaving home, of your mother angry and 
grieved. Are you sure ?” 

“I am not sure that I am right, but I know that I must 
do it. There is no other way for me, Dora. I should 
do it sooner or later if I had to beg my way.” 

“I don’t know what to say to you. I am so ignorant, 
too, but you know, dear, that I have quite a little money 
of my own, and it is yours.” 

“Yes, Dora. I thought a little of asking you to lend 
me some if I had to have it.” 

Dora ran to her bureau, opened the lower drawer, and 
took a long leather purse from under the clothes. She 
opened this eagerly, and kneeling down by Lou, put a 
number of bills in her hands, which she closed over them. 

She looked up into her friend’s face a little timidly, a 
slight colour flushing her cheeks. “Don’t you think God 
would make you sure if you asked Him?” 

Lou bent forward quickly, and kissed her, but she 
made no other answer. That was one of the things she 
did not know. She knew that her mother and Amy 


242 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


prayed and never doubted His sanction of all their ways, 
and she knew that Dora went often to her God like a 
simple and confiding child, and yet her tender heart was 
troubled, and her judgment so subject to her sympathies, 
could never be firm and sure. She thought it more than 
likely that the effect of prayer varied with the tempera- 
ment of the petitioners, but she could not discuss this 
thing with Dora. She walked very softly when Dora 
led her along her holy ways, for she felt that they were, 
indeed, holy if only because of the pure being leading 
her. 

When Lou returned home, she was soothed and com- 
forted, but she knew that this tranquillity would soon 
pass. She determined to act now. while this feeling of 
calm strength was upon her. 

Her mother was in her own room, and she went to her. 

“Mamma,” she said, “I want to tell you something.” 
She tried to speak naturally, and to preserve her ease, 
but with these first words a feeling of faintness came 
over her and her voice faltered. 

“Well, my dear,” said her mother, smiling, “what is 
it? I was sorry to speak so sharply this morning, but 
sometimes you surprise and vex me. You sometimes 
forget, my child, that your mother knows what is best.” 

“But, mamma, I am almost nineteen ” 

“You are just a young girl, my dear, and have much 
to learn.” 

“I know that, mamma. It is my absolute ignorance 
that is troubling me.” 

“Well, you are studying every day. You have as 
good an education as most girls of your age. I am 


BABES IN THE WOOD 


243 


glad you think as you do, but you must not be impatient. 
Your Aunt Susan and I have often talked of your fu- 
ture. You may be sure that every advantage will come 
to you as you are ready for it.” 

“But I am learning nothing. This city is a greater 
mystery to me than is ancient Rome. I know more about 
the nature and motives of the mobs that killed Rienzi 
than of the people I see every day. The world that in- 
terests me is the busy world. I don’t care ” 

“Lou — Lou — you will drive me crazy. I declare, you 
seem possessed with an irritating and contrary spirit. 
What nonsense !” 

Lou looked at her mother, a light of determination 
quickly flashing in her eyes. When she spoke again, her 
voice was low and determined. 

“I wish to give up my music and drawing and the 
Berlitz School, and go into a business college. I wish 
to become a stenographer and get a position downtown.” 

Ller mother looked at her aghast. “You must be out 
of your senses,” she said, her lips slightly curling. 

“I have wanted to do this for a long time.” 

“I am amazed at you. If you have such thoughts 
you need not express them to me. I shall not permit any 
such foolish thing.” 

“I am determined to do this, mother, and if you want 
m'e to go away from you, I will do so.” 

“My God !” cried Mrs. Storrs, breaking suddenly into 
a passionate outburst of tears and words. “My life is 
one long trouble. Why don’t you kill me outright? 
You have always been a strange, unmanageable child. 
How ungrateful, how absurd and cruel you are ! I have 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


244 

planned and worked and endured everything for you — 
why can’t you be like Amy ?” 

“Oh, mamma,” exclaimed Lou, kneeling by her side, 
“why do you feel so about it? What harm is there? 
Why don’t you let me go my own way and just love me? 
Amy thinks as you do, and her ambitions are like yours. 
I love you, mamma.” 

“Well, then, why do you oppose me and disobey me 
at every turn?” 

“I don’t want to, but I must live my own life. 
I ” 

“I will not listen to you,” cried her mother. “You 
will do as I tell you.” 

Lou quietly arose and went to her room. She closed 
the door and drew a chair to the window. A servant 
brought lunch and dinner to her. She went to bed early 
and was soon asleep, for now that the first step was 
taken, she felt strangely at peace, in spite of the sorrow 
for her mother. 

In the morning after breakfast she went down to her 
mother and said: 

“I am going out.” 

“Where are you going? Lou, have you decided as I 
told you to, once and for good?” She looked into her 
daughter’s face wistfully. Her own cheeks were pale, 
her eyes full of a real trouble. It had been a distressing 
ordeal for her. 

“I am going to begin shorthand to-day.” 

Mrs. Storrs turned away angrily, and Lou left the 
house. 

“I will not go back there again,” she said with both 


BABES IN THE WOOD 245 

grief and resentment filling her heart. “I will make my 
own way in the world.” 

She took a small furnished room near the business 
college she had decided to enter, and in the afternoon 
sent a note to her mother by a messenger boy. 

“Dear Mamma,” she wrote, “I have taken a room for 
myself at No. — W. Eighteenth street. I shall begin 
a course in the Manhattan Business College, near here, 
to-morrow morning. I shall try to be happy, and I 
wish I might make you so. If you want me to come 
home and will let me live in my own way, I will do so. I 
have enough money to live on until I am able to earn 
some. I hope you will not worry about me, nor feel too 
badly, nor be angry. I hope some time to be able to 
make you happy and comfortable and to take care of 
you, without marrying to do it. If you cannot accept 
my plans for myself, it will be better for me to live away 
from you. If ever you need me or want me, you will 
find me your loving daughter, 

“Lou.” 

To Dora Preston she wrote : 

“My own Dear Dora : 

“Here I am, but I shall not tell you where, and you 
must not ask, and if you find out, you must not come 
to see me. My greatest hardship will be the loss of you, 
and yet I should suffer more if any trouble came to you 
through me. No one must know that you loaned me 
the money, for you would be severely blamed by my 
mother and my Aunt Susan, and because of them your 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


246 

father might be offended or displeased, and I can think 
of nothing more terrible than that. My mother’s anger 
is only irritating and distressing, but your father’s 
would be a cold, still death. In a little while, we can be 
friends again, for in time the family will have become 
used to my defection and allow me the liberties of a harm- 
less freak. I will not disgrace them — or, at least, I hope 
not, and yet, who knows? And when it is understood 
that I am not bad, but erratic, you may visit me without 
hindrance. I suppose I might go to see you now as 
formerly, but I would rather not be talked at. I will 
wait until my course has been accepted as settled, and 
not considered as an escapade. 

“Dear Dora, how much I love you. Oh, if I could 
only feel toward my mother and my sister as I do toward 
you, I could laugh at the evil and danger of the world. 
I could go singing, like an Italian labourer in a ditch, 
and I believe that then even the mysteries of life would 
scarcely interest me. 

“Since you spoke to me the other day — you remem- 
ber? — I have been almost wishing that Dick might de- 
serve all your wicked doubts, for then I would have you 
all for my own. 

“Tenderly your proteg£, “Lou.” 

As soon as Dora read this letter, she ran into the Van- 
demeres’ house by a short passageway connecting the 
two places, and found Mrs. Vandemere in her private 
drawing-room. 

“Aunt Susie,” she said, “Lou has gone away from 
home. She is all alone in a room she has rented. I 


BABES IN THE WOOD m 

can’t have her there — I can’t, indeed. I must go and 
get her.” 

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Vandemere, “what has she done 
that for?” 

“Come, auntie, we must not wait to talk about it. 
Won’t you please have the.carriage for us?” 

Mrs. Vandemere»had not recovered from her surprise 
at this, development, and her wonder at Dora’s unusual 
eagerness, when Mrs. Storrs entered. 

“I have come to see William,” she said. “I don’t 
know what to do about Lou, Susan. She will do noth- 
ing as I wish her to, and now she has actually left home. 
Of course, I shall go at once and bring her back, but she 
has suddenly got beyond my control and I must ask Will- 
iam to help me?” 

Dora, seeing that she was not needed now, slipped 
quietly out and. went down to the reception hall to watch 
for Mr.. Vandemere. As he came up the stairs, a little 
later, she opened the door and held him by the hand, as 
she closed it behind him softly. 

“Wait a minute,” she said, “Mrs. Storrs is here to 
see you about Lou. Now, dear Uncle William, you must 
not forget when she tells you what she has come for, that 
Lou is the truest, bravest, dearest girl in the world, and 
that she is in earnest in what she wants, and knows why 
she wants it. I can’t tell you all about it, but you must 
be good to Lou.” 

“Well, little one,” he answered, drawing her fair, sen- 
sitive face toward him, and kissing her hair lightly, “I 
will remember.” Then he sent woid to his wife that he 
had returned. He was asked to come upstairs. Mrs. 


£48 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

Storrs showed him Lou’s letter, and told him what she 
insisted on doing, and her own wishes and fears in the 
matter. 

“She doesn’t seem to realise,” she said, “that it has 
been to save her from the terrible necessity for such 
things that I have worked and suffered all these years. 
To think that one of my daughters should actually pre- 
fer to be a stenographer in somebody’s office, a mere com- 
mon labouring girl, elbowing about with all sorts of 
people — with no position in society and no hope of one, 
than to take advantage of her opportunities to become 
somebody.” 

“And you want me to convince her that she is foolish 
and headstrong, Clara?” 

“I thought she might listen to you, but I am not sure 
that she will.” 

“Well, I am not so sure that she is wrong. It might 
be just the thing for Lou.” 

Mr. Vandemere was as near a final authority to Mrs. 
Storrs as she could find outside of herself. But she 
could not help asking reproachfully: 

“Would you want a daughter of yours to earn her 
own living as a stenographer?” 

“No, I should not, Clara, but if a daughter of mine 
felt a more intelligent interest in business than in social 
matters it would not distress me. I would be glad to 
see all the plans you and Susan are nursing fulfilled for 
your daughters, but if Lou has ambitions such as you 
say, you had better let her follow them. If Lou would 
like to talk this over with me, I would be glad to have her. 
There are some cold hard facts to consider that she may 


BABES IN THE WOOD 249 

be ignorant of. Perhaps if I place these before her she 
may prefer your plans.” 

Considerably subdued in spirit, Mrs. Storrs drove in 
the Vandemere carriage to the address Lou had given 
her. She could not help feeling some irritation at her 
defeat. Her rights as a mother and her desire to con- 
trol had been violently set aside. She concealed her 
humiliation under a cloak of real sorrow. She found 
Lou in her new room. 

“I have come,” she said, with a mingling of offended 
dignity and pained reproach, “to take you home.” 

Before she entered, Lou had been rocking near the 
window, feeling curiously alone, and a little forlorn in 
her new-found liberty. She had escaped from the nest, 
but had not yet got the full courage of her wings. She 
would go out presently and have dinner at a restaurant. 
She would walk up Broadway afterwards, and look about 
her. She might even drop into a theatre, for while she 
could not afford such things often, she might indulge a 
little this first night. In the morning she would be at 
her work in earnest, and the loneliness would pass. 
When her mother entered, she rose hastily and stood 
facing her, uncertain what to do. Had her mother 
brought her love and liberty, or just more reproaches? 
Did this mean reconciliation or another distressing scene? 
The first greeting revealed to her that it meant none of 
these things. Her mother would be resigned. 

“Very well, mother,” she said, “I will be glad to go 
home. You won’t mind my having a typewriter in my 
room, will you ?” 

“You may do as you please, Lou. I cannot quarrel 


250 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


with you. But I want to ask you, as a favour, to talk 
with your Uncle William before you do anything.” 

Lou quietly assented to this, and rode back with her 
mother to the Vandemeres. 

Lou was not at all afraid of her Uncle William. She 
had never been on familiar terms with him, because there 
had been no occasion, but in their casual association he 
had been frank, courteous and even genial, at times. 

“Good evening, Lou,” he said pleasantly, as she came 
into the library alone. He put down his paper, and 
motioning to a chair near him, leaned comfortably back 
and looked into her anxious face, his comprehending 
eyes touched with both amusement and sympathy. He 
saw that she was weary and heart-sick, but that none of 
her determination was abated. 

“Sit down, Lou, and rest yourself. Take this cush- 
ion. Now, just be comfortable, and don’t talk if you 
would rather not.” 

Lou brightened up at once and said with a questioning 
smile : 

“I thought I had been sent for a lecture, uncle.” 

“I was rather interested to hear what attracted you 
to a struggle with the world on your own account. It 
is generally supposed that necessity drives young people 
to work. Half the girls in the shops and offices would 
envy you.” 

“It sounds very foolish when I say it to you,” said 
Lou, flushing prettily, “but I wish to be useful. I want 
to feel at home in the world, and to understand what is 
going on in it. I want to make money, and, above all, I 
want to be free to act and think for myself.” 


BABES IN THE WOOD 


251 


“That means hard work. I have no doubt that you 
would become an exceptionally good stenographer and 
might, in a year or so, earn fifteen dollars a week. If you 
were to get with a big concern, you might develop an 
understanding of business and its affairs, and eventually 
hold a high position with them, having large responsi- 
bilities and receiving two or three thousand a year. I 
have known stenographers starting in law offices to be- 
come lawyers. I know two who left places in Wall Street 
and are now successful brokers. A shrewd, wide-awake 
stenographer can establish a copying office almost any- 
where in New York and make money, if she finds out 
how. Any one of these careers would keep you busy 
enough, and I have no doubt you would gain a good deal 
of knowledge of the world. I will not venture to judge 
if that knowledge would be worth the gaining for you, 
but I can certainly assure you that success will come to 
you only through cleverness and toil — cheerful, patient, 
courageous toil — and the possession of keener faculties 
and readier resources than those of the struggling 
swarms around you. It is the fashion, Lou, to speak 
only of Honesty, Industry and Thrift. Successful men 
preach that because they want good clerks. But you 
will find these qualities will not take you far in our times. 
You must be more adroit than your rivals. You will 
meet with envy, greed, tyranny and rebuffs. Your back 
will ache, your mind and body will be often weary, your 
heart will be often wounded. You will have to keep con- 
stant watch of your pocketbook and your honour. If you 
escape the lust of men and the spite of women, if you 
are able to force the world to use you and can make your 


252 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


service profitable to yourself, you will be honoured and 
sought after. If you fail, you might better have blown 
your brains out before you began.” He flashed a quick 
glance of steely determination, of defiant strength, 
into her eyes as he added: “I am among those who 
control to-day, but if I were to make too great a 
blunder, or come, in my natural progress, against 
opposing forces too strong for me, I could easily be 
on the streets to-morrow among the beaten and 
despised.” 

Lou, fascinated by his words and manner, leaned 
eagerly toward him. 

“If I were you, Lou,” he said more quietly, laying his 
hand lightly on hers, “I would be content to drift in quiet 
waters. If you want a little money of your own, you 
shall have it. I think your mother can be induced to 
grant you more freedom of opinion, at least. But why 
trouble yourself with opinions? You are surely bright 
and attractive enough to win a fair share of the world’s 
flattering attention, and the world is willing enough to 
pet its pretty maidens who please and do not disturb it. 
Be docile, Lou. Let your mother and aunt do the 
scheming and content yourself with receiving what they 
can coax your way. Life is only a few years, at the 
most. Surely, it is something to be a beautiful and 
gracious woman, a good wife and a happy mother. You 
may be all these without the toil and temptations you 
are bent upon.” 

“I am tired of idle dreams and unsatisfied curiosity. 
I will follow the path I have chosen, and see where it 
leads.” 


BABES IN THE WOOD 253 

“Well, Lou, I wish you success and happiness. If 
you want a job, I will give you one.” 

“No, indeed, uncle, I will poke through the maze by 
myself, and see what I can find.” 

Mr. Vandemere laughed pleasantly, and followed her 
from the room with a glance of sympathy and approval. 

“What did he say?” asked her mother, as they were 
walking home. 

“He warned me and wished me success. I shall try 
to succeed.” 

Her mother made no further effort to oppose her. 
She was resigned at first, and eventually found a way to 
reconcile Lou’s career to her own pride and vanity. 

While Lou was still going day after day to her studies, 
Mrs. Storrs had conceived her to be the private secretary 
of her uncle. 


1 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY . 

W HEN Thekla was taken to the police station on 
the night of her arrest she was brought be- 
fore the sergeant at the desk and questioned. 
After the failure of Ike to release her, she had become 
suddenly quiet. The excitement of the struggle passed, 
and only the terror remained. She was alone now with 
the officer who pushed her steadily on through the 
shadowy streets, hi6 heavy hand gripped relentlessly 
about the collar of her dress. All her lifelong dread of 
the police was upon her. She was still in spirit as much 
of a child as when she stood over the vanquished Tommy 
Simpkins, appalled by the huge figure of the policeman 
towering over her. The terrible ordeal through which 
she passed with her father returned to her now with 
sickening clearness. As she was pushed before the ser- 
geant’s desk she remembered how her father had been 
jammed against it, and questioned and roughly handled 
when he was slow to answer. They had questioned him 
and taken him out through the dingy door in the rear, 
and he had not come back. Thekla could readily be 
swept into a stormy conflict by a sudden rush of emotion, 
but even at those times the quality of her soul was ap- 
254 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


255 


parent. A quarrel brought her more of grief than 
anger. Tears and sobs invariably mingled with her 
curses and her blows. She was, in any personal encoun- 
ter, more afraid of the injury she might give than she 
might receive. But to such a nature the thought of 
captivity brings a blind, unreasoning, absolute terror. 
This was upon her now. She looked at the indifferent 
face of the sergeant with wide eyes and open mouth, 
trembling in her eagerness to answer his questions 
quickly. 

“How old are you?” 

“Almost sixteen.” 

“Come now, you’re older than that. Don’t you lie 
to me.” 

“No, no. I am telling the truth. Oh, won’t you let 
me go home?” 

“Take her to the Gerry,” said the sergeant, with a 
nod to an officer. 

Curiously enough, this society for the prevention of 
cruelty to children, founded upon a conception of mercy, 
has become a vast thing of menace to those it is supposed 
to shield. It would be interesting to discover the ele- 
ments in its composition, the moral qualities, the inci- 
dents in its progress that have brought this about. It 
is certainly true that it is the modern bogy of the poor 
people. 

This society, for Thekla, was a part of the world of 
police and reformatories. When she passed through 
the high-arched doorway she entered a prison, and the 
Square, the country roads, the cycle paths, the parks, 
the beach, the dancing pavilions, the groves, along the 


256 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


rivers and the Sound, the sunny days of labour and the 
starry nights of song and laughter, were locked outside. 
These were the things she delighted in. She loved her 
work, dull and monotonous as it was, because it brought 
money to her mother, and because the night and liberty 
would surely come. She was innocent in her desires. 
She added nothing to the evil of the world, but only to 
its quality of affection and delight. The world had 
seized and brought her here, because she had been soiled 
by the evil in it. *Ln her youth and ignorance, out of the 
generosity of her nature, she had permitted a violation 
of an ordinance it has taken the combined wisdom of cen- 
turies to formulate. Crude as our conception of moral- 
ity is, it is still the result of slow accumulation, genera- 
tion after generation. Is it remarkable, then, that a girl 
of fifteen has not grasped what the ages have but dimly 
conceived? 

Thekla was given the regulation bath, but was allowed 
to keep her own clothing, for it was fresh and clean. 
She was given a narrow bed in a room filled with other 
girls gathered here out of the city’s misery, all of them 
forlorn and fear-stricken, if not indifferent through 
stupidity. As she saw the restless forms stretched in 
rows through the dim room, heard the sobs and caught 
the curious glances of those about her, she grew faint 
and sick and could scarcely undress. As the wakeful 
night passed, a longing for her mother possessed her, 
and as the pathetic figure stood in her vision as a refuge 
she could not reach, she turned on her pillow and moaned. 

In the morning she was taken with three other girls 
to the Jefferson Market Court, where she waited in a little 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


257 


side room until her case was reached. Her spirit was 
broken. On the way over people had looked at her 
curiously. She felt herself alone in a strange world. 
One of her companions was sobbing. The others were 
defiant, but she felt only a sense of wondering alarm and 
loneliness. She had never anticipated anything but de- 
light, and her merry blue eyes had always sought the 
faces of others for what affection or good-will there 
might be there. A vision of the streets, thronged with 
curious people, now filled her mind. Near the door stood 
the guard, silent, indifferent, unfriendly. Outside was 
the court-room, where she would stand, with the accusing 
eyes of the law upon her. This was the strange, new 
aspect of the present, and what was to come beyond the 
court-room she could only wonder over and dread. 

When the officer opened the door and called her, she 
started from her seat and hurried from the room with 
quick, uncertain steps. The officer led her before the 
bench. She felt that many people were about her, but 
she saw them vaguely. Her whole being was oppressed 
by fear. Suddenly she heard the cry of a familiar voice, 
and, looking quickly in its direction, saw her mother run- 
ning toward her, her arms outstretched and trembling. 
The terror left her face and a light shone from it. 
Tears filled her eyes, and forgetting in a moment every- 
thing but the little mother in her arms, she lifted her 
from the floor, laughing and sobbing over her. They 
were instantly separated, however, and Mrs. Fischer was 
hurried back to her bench. The meeting, the voice of 
love, had brought to Thekla’s soul food and drink, and 
she stood before the judge with less fear than she had 


258 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


felt since her arrest. She looked back at her mother, 
and then at the judge when he spoke to her. 

“What did you say?” she asked, looking up at him, 
her lips still trembling, the tears welling from her eyes, 
and bathing her cheeks. She told him her name and 
age, and where she worked and lived. The voice of the 
magistrate was clear and gentle, and she began to find 
comfort in his strong, compassionate face. 

“Have you no father?” 

“No, he’s gone.” 

“Is he dead?” 

“No, sir; he was taken to prison.” 

“What for — do you know?” 

“For — for making counterfeits.” 

The magistrate looked up at the ceiling, trying to re- 
call an impression. He glanced at Thekla again and 
said: 

“Is his name Karl Fischer?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“He was sentenced last winter?” 

“In January, judge.” 

“And you are his daughter. Was he a good father 
to you — did you love him ?” 

Thekla nodded, but she could not speak. The judge 
looked from her to the mother thoughtfully. She was 
wringing her hands, weeping, leaning far forward, look- 
ing pitifully toward the judge and her daughter, mur- 
muring in unintelligible German. 

“My dear,” said the judge very gently, “do you 
know why you were arrested and brought here?” 

Thekla nodded again, but did not look up. 


259 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 

“Don’t you know how terrible such things are? That 
it means death to your soul and degradation for you be- 
fore the world?” 

Thekla did not move. The judge watched her bowed 
head, her trembling body for a moment, and said: 

“You are not a bad girl, Thekla, and my heart aches 
for you and for your mother and your old father in 
prison. It is pitiful to see a home, such as I know yours 
must have been, broken and made desolate. It is very, 
very sad to see a young girl so good and sweet as I be- 
lieve you to be, fall into disgrace, dragged about by the 
police, brought into court, her soul and body paraded as 
a public spectacle, her name covered with reproach and 
shame. I will not send you to an institution, Thekla. 
You do not need to be confined. You need the love of 
your mother, and she needs you. But, my child, don’t 
you know that misery and suffering for you and for her 
will surely follow if you yield to the passion of your 
companions or indulge in your own? Keep your body 
clean as your heart is pure. Remember that it is a bit- 
ter world for a woman when her name is gone. You 
have been thoughtless, but you must think. There are 
few but yourself to protect you. You may go now with 
your mother.” 

Thekla lifted her head suddenly, and as she compre- 
hended that she was free her face became flushed and 
joyful. She beamed in gratitude upon the judge, and 
running to her mother, said : 

“It is all right, mamma. I can go home with you. 
You need not cry any more. It is all right.” 

She led her away, and the magistrate watched them 


260 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


with a foreboding shake of his head. What but disaster 
could await a girl so thoughtless, so affectionate, so 
freely at the mercy of any who would take? Would it 
have been better to have taken her away from her mother 
who only loved her, and to have given her to an institu- 
tion to watch and restrain? It would only be a few 
years before she must be turned into the world again, 
and would the kind of discipline and instruction she 
might receive affect a nature like hers except to torment 
it? He did not think so. He wrtched her sorrowfully, 
for he knew that she was one of those who run swiftly at 
the call of love or sympathy, unheeding where it takes 
them. 

When Thekla led her mother from the court-house she 
left behind her all her fear and grief. Her release was 
absolute. She walked through the streets toward home, 
rejoicing in the bright morning, her eyes beaming upon 
the passing crowds, her feet eager to reach the familiar 
Square. She wished she could tell Emeline the good news 
at once, but she had gone to work as usual that morning, 
and would not be home until evening. Thekla left her 
mother at the corner and hurried to the feather factory, 
for she was already over three hours late. 

A moment’s uneasiness came upon her as she entered, 
for they always frowned upon or reprimanded a tardy 
one. She slipped quietly into her seat and began to 
work. 

“I expect I’ll catch it,” she whispered to the girl next 
to her. 

The girl exchanged a significant glance with another 
one opposite her and then bent over her work without 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY £61 

making any reply. All the morning no one noticed 
Thekla. If she spoke there was silence. She very soon 
felt the repelling attitude. She wondered at the accus- 
ing eyes, the pursed lips, the peculiar telegraphy of 
glances. What did it mean ? The memory of her j our- 
ney from the Gerry Society to the court-room returned 
to her. She ceased to speak. As she peered into the 
averted faces her eyes were fixed with wonder and anx- 
iety. She went home at noon. But she could not eat. 
She sat close to her mother, her arm over her chair, often 
putting her cheek against hers, looking tenderly upon 
her, drawing her face to her and kissing it. Her 
mother, tender and puzzled, kept saying in German : 

“Why don’t you eat, Tekla? Take a mouthful of 
this, my little one.” 

“I feel so bad, I just want you, mamma. I don’t 
know what it is, but I feel so bad.” 

When she returned to the factory Mr. Rosenthal 
called her into the little back room, his office, and said : 

“Here is what I owe you. I can’t keep you any 
longer.” 

Thekla stared at the money in his hand. The colour 
flamed into her cheeks, and, passing, left them cold and 
white. 

“Why — why must I go?” she faltered. 

“The other girls say they won’t stay if I keep you. 
You were arrested last night, weren’t you?” 

Thekla looked blankly into his face. 

“Come, here is your money. I have no time to fool 
away.” 

She took it, went for her hat, and passed dizzily 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


m 

through the work-room, self-conscious and abashed, and 
reached the street. She was obliged to sit down for a 
moment on the steps outside, for her legs were trembling 
and the world seemed to be receding and shifting around 
her. When the faintness passed she went home. Her 
mother was gone, and she walked over to a bench in the 
Square. For a long time she sat with her eyes closed, 
lost in confusion and misery. As the afternoon passed, 
the brightness of the day, the shouts of children, the 
melodies of passing hurdy-gurdies, the cheerful, busy 
rumble and clatter about her softened her emotions, and 
she began to watch eagerly for the passing of her mother 
or Emeline. Soon the evening would come, and with it 
her companions. They would be glad of her escape, 
and angry because of her dismissal from the factory. 
That was now the one calamity. The terrible wound 
given her heart by the aversion of the shop-girls was 
only a dull pain now, but she was distressed at the loss 
of her wages on her mother’s account, and she craved 
encouragement and comfort. At six o’clock she saw 
Emeline coming into the Square from Fifth avenue, and 
hurried to meet her. 

“Oh, Emmie,” she cried, “I am home again. They 
let me go, Emmie.” 

Emeline pushed her away. 

“Don’t speak to me,” said she, sharply. “I don’t 
want to be seen with you.” She walked rapidly through 
the Square, and turned into her hallway without a glance 
behind. 

Thekla, astonished by this rebuff, followed her silently. 
She was crying when she entered the room after her. 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 263 

“Emmie — Emmie ” she sobbed, “don’t be angry 

with me. I feel so bad. I have lost my job at the fac- 
tory. They sent me away. Oh, I feel so terrible.” 

“Of course they sent you away. What did you ex- 
pect?” 

“Vass iss it, Emmie? For vy you sprecken so?” 

“I tell you now that I won’t stand it. I am going to 
get away from here. I will leave to-morrow if I can. 
I ” 

“Don’t, Emmie, don’t.” 

Thekla stood gripping her hands before her, looking 
into Emeline’s face with streaming eyes, opening and 
closing her mouth in sobs and gasps for breath. Mrs. 
Fischer had fallen into a chair, and was looking pitifully 
from one to the other. 

“I won’t stay here any longer. My father in jail! 
My sister a common street girl, picked up by the police 
and almost sent to a reform school! That’s where she 
ought to be. If my mother wants you, she can keep you, 
but I will not stay. Do you think anyone will have any- 
thing to do with you now? You will shame anyone seen 
with you. How can I ever expect to become decent and 
respectable in such a family ?” 

Thekla had dropped on the floor by her mother, throw- 
ing her arms over her lap and hiding her face in it. Her 
mother bowed over her head, stroked and caressed her, 
soothing her with murmured German endearments, cast- 
ing frightened glances at the angry Emeline. Sud- 
denly an unnatural passion possessed her, shaking her 
old body convulsively. 

“Keep your vords still,” she cried in a high, thin voice. 


264 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“HI not keep still. I’ll say what I please. I’ll get 
out of here to-night, I will.” 

“Yah, yah,” said her mother, excitedly, “Go on off 
mit you. Vy you sprecken so aboud Tekla?” 

Emeline pulled the box that had brought her things 
here and packed it. The passion left her mother as 
swiftly as it had come. She stroked Thekla’s hair with 
shaking hands and looked about her with a wondering, 
uncertain expression. 

“Emeline,” said Thekla, softly, looking up, “are you 
really going?” 

Emeline curled her lips, but did not answer. She got 
the cover for her box, and then it occurred to her that 
she did not care to take her things to a boarding-house 
in such a way. She laid the cover down, and went out. 
She would find a room somewhere, and in the morning 
early she would buy a trunk. When she was gone 
Thekla got up and wiped the tears from her face. 

“Come, mamma,” she said, “we must have something 
to eat. Don’t feel bad, mamma. It is better for Em- 
mie to go if she wants to. She will be happier, perhaps, 
and get along better. You have some money saved, 
and you can give it to her now. She will need it, I 
guess. When she goes, you and I will go and see 
Fahter.” 

Emeline came in late and went to her bed without a 
word. She went out before breakfast, and returned with 
a man carrying a trunk. As she was packing this her 
mother came to her, and held out some money. 

“It is forty dollars. I haf saved it for you.” 

“I don’t want it,” said Emeline quietly. “I can take 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 265 

care of myself.” When she had finished packing she 
said: 

“I will send a man for my trunk.” 

“Good-bye, Emmie,” murmured Thekla, who stood 
in the kitchen door, looking at her wistfully. 

“Good-bye. Good-bye, mother — I will come and see 
you sometimes.” 

“Let me kiss you,” said Thekla, coming toward her. 
Emeline turned her cheek. 

“Oh, Emmie, forgive me — I didn’t mean to — I — 
I ” 

“Don’t,” said Emeline, walking quickly away from 
her, and out of the room. Emeline had left her low sur- 
roundings forever. 

All the next day Thekla remained inside washing and 
ironing. She thought to brighten her mother’s dis- 
tressed face by a constant cheerful chatter and frequent 
caresses, half-playful, half-tender. 

“We will go now and see him,” she kept repeating. 
“We will start very soon. Perhaps, next week, and see 
him. Think how glad he will be.” Then she would talk 
about Emeline, praising her skill and picturing the 
splendid future she knew would be hers. 

“She has grown so handsome and so stylish, 
mamma, we could not expect she would stay with us 
always.” 

But all through the day a sorrowful foreboding op- 
pressed her. In the evening she went slowly to the 
Square, her cheeks flushed, her eyes moist with yearning 
anxiety over her fate. She soon discovered what this 
was to be. As she crossed the street she overtook her 


266 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


cousins, Anna and Alice. When they saw her by their 
side they stopped abruptly and Anna said quietly : 

“You must not come with us, Thekla. Father said 
if he saw us with you again he would keep us in.” 

Thekla stood where she was, and when they had passed 
on into the Square she went home. The next night she 
ventured out again, for it was impossible for her to 
abandon all her whole-hearted, joyous associations so 
readily. 

The boys spoke to her, and tried to act as though there 
was no change in their relations, but they were ill at their 
ease when she was with them. The news of her scandal 
was common gossip through the Square. People looked 
askance at her as she passed them. Sometimes the chil- 
dren called out to her: “Look out there — here comes 
the cop.” They would even remark upon her conduct 
with light-hearted obscenity. Her cousins and Pauline 
ostentatiously avoided her, Maggie would talk with her, 
and when Tom suggested a bicycle ride the next Sunday, 
she and Pat agreed to go with him and Thekla. But 
even Tom was peculiar in his manner. He would not 
see her get the worst of it, not he. He would stand by 
her whatever happened. But Thekla felt that he needed 
considerable courage to do this. All the old-time free- 
dom was gone. She was horribly conscious of herself. 
The attitude of the Square toward her became a thing of 
terror. The quick welcome, the spontaneous good-will, 
the natural, thoughtless affection she had found always 
waiting for her was no longer there, and without this 
there was nothing. 

She endured this misery for four days, and then, Fri- 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 267 

day night, she went home early and told her mother they 
would start in the morning for Sing Sing. All that 
night visions of her father filled her mind. The city, 
always so appealing to her before, seemed now impossible 
to endure. Her heart bounded at the thought of escape 
from it. The quiet country, the far-stretching road, the 
peaceful, tranquil fields, the cool, lonely woods, spread 
before her, and dreaming of them and her father, she 
smiled in her happy sleep. 

They started away early in the morning. Thekla had 
a bundle tied to her shoulders and five dollars in her 
pocket. Her mother carried the remainder of their for- 
tune, forty-five dollars in all, sewed under the band of 
her old, black alpaca skirt. 

They walked over to Broadway and boarded an open 
Columbus avenue car. Thekla helped her mother into a 
seat and climbed up after her. 

“Don’t sit so close to the end,” said Mrs. Fischer, 
anxiously, her whole body a-tremble with nervous ex- 
citement. 

The journey was a great undertaking to her, and its 
object was an all-important event. During the months 
of lonely grief the hope of seeing Karl again and the 
needs of her children had alone kept life and strength in 
her old body. It would be hard to say which of these 
motives had sustained her more. Emeline’s sudden de- 
parture, and the unhappiness attending her leave-taking, 
had been a blow to her troubled heart. All the ride up 
Broadway and the Boulevard, the swarms of people and 
the mass of buildings they passed, oppressed her with a 
sense of the vastness of the city about her, and the con- 


268 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


fusion of the multitudinous life into which Emeline had 
vanished. She began to feel that she was lost to her 
forever. The fact that Emeline had in late years been 
only a burden to her made her loss more pathetic, for 
she had been a burden upon her affection. She could 
not understand her. She could not make her happy ; 
she could only love her and try anxiously to supply her 
wants, hoping that sometime, in some unforeseen way, the 
relationship of simple, peaceful affection she craved 
would come to them. But she was gone now, a portion 
of her own soul, unreconciled, wandering alone in this 
vast and fearsome city. 

To Thekla there was also something melancholy in the 
ride. How happily she would have started upon this 
long-dreamed of journey to her father if she could have 
left the world behind her with only its joyous memories, 
if she could have known that friends would think of her 
affectionately while she was gone and welcome her when 
she returned. For the first time in her life she felt her- 
self alone and friendless. The father she was going to 
see, the little silent mother by her side so helpless and 
sorrowful, were all that was left to her, out of this 
swarming city, filled with infinite possibilities of friendly, 
affectionate companionship. But this mood in such a 
nature could not remain undisturbed long with the sun 
shining so brightly. When they left the cars at last, 
and crossed the Harlem river over King’s Bridge, Thekla 
looked back at the gleaming city with an unconscious 
hope and a touch of returning affection. It was so se- 
rene and beautiful. Perhaps when she returned her 
troubles would have vanished. Surely, the terrible days 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


269 


she had just passed through could not last forever in a 
place so fair and radiant. She turned toward the road 
with a lighter heart. 

Just beyond the bridge they were overtaken by a mar- 
ket gardener, whose wagon was empty. Thekla looked 
up at him as he passed, and called cheerily : 

“Give us a ride, Mister?” 

He glanced down at them and pulled up his team. 

“Jump on,” he said, pleasantly. “Better put the old 
woman on the seat. You can stand up behind. Here, 
give me a hold of her.” 

Thekla lifted her mother onto the wheel, and she was 
pulled up by the driver. 

“Where you bound for?” he asked of Thekla as they 
moved on again. 

“To Sing Sing.” 

“Thought you’d walk it, eh? Pretty hard on her, I 
should say.” 

“She’s never been on a train, and is terribly afraid 
of them. I thought we could catch rides like this.” 

“Well, mebby you can. I live five miles and forty 
rods from King’s Bridge. You’ll get that far along, 
anyhow. What you going to Sing Sing for?” 

“To see my father.” 

“Not in the penitentiary, is he?” 

“Yes.” 

“You don’t say so.” He looked at the little old 
woman by his side, and the pleasant face of the girl be- 
hind her, made sweet and rather pathetic by its momen- 
tary expression of sorrow, and shook his head. 

Arrived at his gate, the two got out and trudged 


270 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


slowly for a little way along the road, Mrs. Fischer 
hanging to Thekla’s arm, her head bowed, her crooked 
back bent forward and sideways, her steps irregular. It 
did not hurt her to walk, only she could not go very fast. 
At noon, they sat under a tree by the roadside, and 
Thekla took some sandwiches and a bottle of milk from 
her bundle. As they were eating their lunch, a hand- 
some, two-seated road-cart, drawn by a black horse, 
richly harnessed, came down the road. It was driven 
by a genial-faced young coachman, and he was alone. 
Thekla, moved by his amiable appearance, his rough, 
rather whimsical Irish face, waved her hand to him as he 
approached, and called, half -jokingly, for she really did 
not expect to be picked up by such a turnout : 

“You’re going our way, Mike.” 

“Whoa, Bill — whoa,” he called, pulling his horse up 
short and cocking his eyes on Thekla. 

“Do you know me name?” he asked with a wink. “Or 
is it joost the look of the Owld Country, you see?” 

“Will you give us a ride?” 

“Sure I will, for the fare.” 

“Oh — I did not know it was a stage.” 

“The conveyance is me master’s, but there is no law 
agin tips.” Thekla laughed, for there was that in his 
glance that enlightened her. 

“How far do you go?” she said shrewdly. 

“Joost beyant Tarrytown.” 

“Oh, ma,” she cried gaily, “it will be almost there.” 

She helped her mother into the seat behind, and follow- 
ing her quickly, leaned over and kissed the coachman. 

“I guess that’s the fare.” 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


n\ 


“I see two of yez,” he said dryly, “and I’ve not had a 
drop since mornin’. 

She kissed him again, and, sitting down, resumed her 
lunch with her mother. 

“Isn’t it fine?” she said. “We will get there to-night, 
I guess.” 

“Oh, yah, it iss goot.” 

A happy eagerness brightened the dim eyes a moment. 

It was a long, beautiful drive now between low hedges 
and stone walls. The road was comfortably shaded by 
the elm and maple trees, hanging their branches over it. 

To the right, was a far-spreading country of rolling 
hills and broad hollows divided into irregular green 
fields, dotted with trees, great red barns, and white farm 
houses. 

As they now and then climbed to the summit of a hill, 
they could see the valley of the Hudson on their left, the 
gleam of water and the purple line of the Palisades be- 
yond. They passed through towns and little groups of 
dwellings gathered about a church and graveyard. 
There were fine stone and iron gateways marking the 
entrances to great estates. There were well-kept groves 
and miles of closely-cropped sod, and princely mansions 
rising at intervals far back above the trees. 

All these evidences of great wealth and luxury were 
to Thekla but part of a beautiful, tranquil scene, a por- 
tion of a world in which she could so easily be happy. 

She neither envied nor coveted. She wished for noth- 
ing but the good-will of those she encountered. She 
could have partaken of all the luxury and delight of the 
earth without any other possession in it, but the liberty 




THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


to look upon it and the smiles of those who chanced to 
notice her at all. The friendliness of the coachman, the 
beauty of the day, the fact that her mother was nearing 
her journey’s end in comfort, filled her with a full content 
and she forgot the unhappiness behind her and all that 
was melancholy in their mission. 

They turned, about sunset, through the gateway of 
an estate and stopped before a little stone lodge house, 
with quaint dormer windows and a wide porch. Molly, 
the plump, freckled-face wife of the coachman, came out, 
and when he had spoken with her a moment she asked 
Thekla and her mother to spend the night in the lodge 
house. 

“ You could not see your father to-night if you went 
on,” she said. “And in the morning Mike will hold 
some one up for you going to Sing Sing.” 

“And there’ll be the plisant rint to pay,” said Mike, 
with a wink at Thekla. 

“Go on wid you,” said Molly. 

“He made me kiss him twice for bringing us here,” 
said Thekla. 

“You needn’t tell me that,” laughed Molly ; “I know 
the blaggard.” 

Mike drove off with a crack of his whip, chuckling 
complacently. 

Mrs. Fischer was helped inside, for she was very tired 
and a little wandering in her mind. She did not seem to 
notice where she was, but did as she was told, nodding her 
head constantly, in a slow, feeble effort at friendliness, 
murmuring disconnected German words now and then, 
speaking Karl’s name as if questioning Molly or Thekla 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 


273 


about him. They gave her a cup of tea, and some toast, 
which she did not eat, and put her to bed, where she was 
instantly asleep. 

It was a very happy evening for Thekla, for it was 
only Thekla, Mike and Molly with them, and they could 
not have been more friendly if they had grown up to- 
gether. 

“You must stop here on your way back,” said Molly, 
“and I will speak to Mrs. Howard for you. She could 
get your mother into some old ladies’ home, where she 
would be comfortable, and you could work here, perhaps, 
for she is always wanting another girl for something.” 

“That would be fine,” said Thekla, “but I must stay 
with my mother. She could not live away from us all 
that way.” 

In the morning Mike watched for a waggon bound for 
Sing Sing, and when he had stopped one he called them 
out and helped them in. 

“Be sure and stop coming back,” called Molly, waving 
her hand from the gate. “Stop and see me, anyway.” 

It was only about six miles from here to Sing Sing, 
and they arrived on the edge of the town in less than an 
hour. Following the directions of the teamster, they 
passed through a field and came out upon a narrow street 
winding along the shore of the river until it led them 
to the penitentiary. A sudden turn brought the long, 
low buildings, surrounded by a high brick wall, into full 
view. On a hill to the right stood a gray building, like 
a Roman temple, with great stone columns in front. Its 
windows were covered with bars. 

The street curving around the base of this hill 


274 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


brought them to the entrance of the prison on the left. 
Below them, on the flat lands along the river, were the 
shops and stone yards. Directly in front of them rose 
the grim front of the cell house, built of cold, gray 
stone, its desolate and forbidding aspect intensified by 
the little grated slits that served as windows. 

“Is he here?” asked Katrina faintly, hesitating to ap- 
proach the massive doors before them. Thekla put her 
arms about her and led her gently, unable to speak be- 
cause of the emotions that gripped her throat. The 
terror she had always felt at the mere idea of a prison 
almost overcame her now, for mingled with it was the 
added effect of its actual stern appearance and the re- 
alization that her father was somewhere confined behind 
its walls. 

The sharp, quick questions of the officer who admitted 
them made her instantly more alert and filled her with an 
eager excitement. She looked down the long, lighted 
hall before her, as they were led into the basement, trem- 
bling with expectation. Her heart was beating quickly, 
her breath came in unconscious sobs and gasps. Her 
mother clung to her arm, moaning and trembling. 

“Come here; come back here,” called the guard, as 
they were passing him blindly. He stood by a nar- 
row door and motioned them to enter. Thekla saw 
the room vaguely, for though her eyes were dilated, ap- 
prehension, terror and tender longing almost blinded 
her. She stood in the centre of the room, holding her 
mother, until she saw, coming toward them, an old 
man in the striped costume of the convict. She was 
startled as by an apparition, for she saw her father’s 


THE QUALITY OE MERCY 215 

eyes and recognised the loping gait he used when moving 
quickly. But his head and face were closely shaved; he 
was white, with a sickly whiteness. His wrinkled cheeks 
were hollow and his once heavy form was gaunt and 
more stooping. 

“Gadreena,” he called, hoarsely ; “Tekla — Gadreena, 
doan you know me yet ?” 

Katrina’s dim eyes spared her some of the shock of 
the meeting, but she cried out shrilly at the sight of him. 
His deep wrinkles were now terribly plain, and his large 
ears, standing out boldly from his cropped head, gave 
an almost grotesque effect to his appearance. But his 
voice, the familiar clasp of his arms about her, made her 
oblivious to all the change in him. She clung to his 
neck, shaking with the rush of her emotion. He took her 
to a bench by the wall, and, drawing her head to his 
breast, stroked and kissed it with the tenderness of a 
lover. Thekla, sitting by his side, her hands clasped 
about his neck, looked into his eyes, whispering endear- 
ments, kissing his hollow cheeks, suffering because of 
the fearful alteration in him, dropping her head now and 
then to cry upon his shoulder. They scarcely spoke. 
Their words were only the broken expressions of help- 
less, troubled tenderness. He asked for Emeline, and 
Thekla told him that she could not come. Before they 
had begun to think of the future at all the guard sud- 
denly appeared and tapped Karl on the shoulder. 

“Come now,” he said, “your time is up.” 

He rose quickly, for he had learned prompt obedience 
here. Katrina tried to get up also, with some vague 
notion that she might follow him. Thekla put her arms 


m 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


about her and led her away. She made no effort to re- 
main, she uttered no sound, but passed with Thekla out 
of the prison, and slowly along the road by which they 
had come, in half-unconscious silence. Thekla wished, if 
possible, to reach the lodge house and Molly by night- 
fall. They could sleep there again, she knew, if they 
did not get a ride that would take them some distance 
further. Neither she nor her mother thought of eating. 
They were picked up near the town and carried almost 
a mile by a milk waggon returning from its route. 

By four o’clock they were over two miles from Sing 
Sing. At the top of a long hill Katrina suddenly 
stopped. 

“Are you tired?” 

“Yes, I must sleep.” 

Thekla lifted her and carried her up a steep embank- 
ment to a stretch of clean sod, shaded by a row of hem- 
locks. She placed her on the ground, and sitting down, 
leaning against the fence, took her head in her lap. In 
a moment her mother was asleep. Thekla could see far 
away and below her, beyond the rolling meadows and 
woodlands, a wide sweep of the Hudson, like a lake en- 
closed by hills. On the distant shore, close by the water, 
was the city, its buildings forming but an indistinct 
solid patch of white against the purple background. 
Immediately across the road was a little wood surrounded 
by open fields. Its cool breath fanned her cheeks. She 
caught the faint odor of forest mould and wood violets, 
and heard the twittering and singing of birds. There 
was a pleasant murmur in the hemlocks above her. The 
road descended the hill again, and she could see rising 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY Til 

from the hollow at her left the tower of a white stone 
church. For a long time no one passed. The tranquil, 
dream-like beauty of the world about her lulled the tur- 
bulent emotions that had followed her from the prison. 
She dwelt upon her father’s memory tenderly, and he 
began to resume in her mind his familiar likeness. The 
shorn head, the striped garments, the hollow cheeks, the 
protruding ears, the ghastly whiteness of the convict, 
passed slowly from her memory, and only her father re- 
mained. Presently she saw a waggon coming up the 
hill from Sing Sing, and she stooped over to awaken her 
mother. As she did so she noticed that a peculiar 
shadow seemed to have settled upon her upturned face, 
and that something always evident there before had 
passed. Moved by a wondering alarm, she touched her 
cheek gently. It was cold and lifeless. She trembled vio- 
lently and leaned back against the fence, closing her eyes. 

The approaching waggon was loaded with lumber. It 
came slowly up the hill, with a pleasant sound of creak- 
ing timbers and jolting wheels. The driver, leaning 
steadily upon the reins, his feet far apart, and braced 
against a cleat, talked to his straining team in a low 
monotone, encouraging them, keeping the heart in them 
during the long pull. At the top of the hill he stopped to 
let them breathe. As they shook themselves and stretched 
their necks, he leaned his elbows on his knees and looked 
quietly at the two motionless forms on the embankment. 
There was something in their attitude to stir his interest. 

“Hello,” he called, “are you asleep?” 

Thekla had been faintly conscious of the sound of his 
approach. She intended to speak to him. She knew 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


that her mother was dead, and she felt vaguely that 
something should be done. But if he had not spoken to 
her she would have let him pass. She wished she might 
remain leaning against the fence, her eyes closed, half- 
lost to the world, in this tranquil silence. She was not 
frightened; she was scarcely grieved. When the first 
shock of her discovery passed, a benumbing quiet pos- 
sessed her. Her mother, dead upon her lap, could not 
move her as much as the sight of her tears. She did not 
say to herself that so sweet a death should be welcomed, 
since it released her from a troubled life; she did not 
reason at all. She felt her mother’s silence and repose, 
and where all else was so restful, so undisturbed, she 
could not fear or grieve. 

When the driver called to her, she got up, and lifting 
her mother tenderly, carried her down the embankment. 

“Are you going far?” she asked, looking anxiously 
up at him. 

“About a mile on this road. Is she sick?” 

“I guess — I guess she is dead.” 

Her voice faltered. It was hard to say the words. 
The driver jumped down quickly. 

“Yes,” he said, solemnly, “she is dead. When was it? 
Have you been here long?” 

“She went to sleep more than an hour ago.” 

“Is she your mother?” 

“Yes.” 

“What are you going to do? Where do you live? 
Better let me help you. We can carry her to the next 
house, until you can take her home.” 

At the sound of his sympathetic voice Thekla began to 


m 


THE QUALITY OF MERCY 

Cry. She bent over and kissed her mother. He took the 
little form from her arms and said soothingly, very much 
as he had coaxed his good horses up the hill : 

“There, now, don’t cry, my girl. It is hard on you, 
ain’t it? She seems pretty comfortable, though, don’t 
she? Just passed off in her sleep, eh? Old age, I 
guess. Do you live in Sing Sing?” 

Thekla shook her head. 

“Tarry town, maybe?” 

“No — we — we live in New York.” 

“Is that so? Well, I’m awful sorry for you. Got any 
relations around here ?” 

“I know some lodge-keepers down the road. If I could 
get to them ” 

“Well, I’m glad to help you. Get right up on the 
seat, now, and I’ll take you there. What place is it?” 

She told him, and leaning over, lifted her mother from 
his arms. He climbed to the seat and picked up the reins, 
letting them fall lightly on the horses’ hips. They started 
from their doze, lifted their heads and moved forward. 

“I’ll just take you there myself,” he said, sympa- 
thetically, “so’s you won’t have to explain it all over 
again. You just sit there and cry or do what you want 
to. It’ll be a few miles more pulling for the horses, but 
they don’t mind it, do you, boys?” He tightened the 
reins gradually as they started down the incline. 

“Steady, Pete — so — so — steady.” As they neared the 
bottom of the hill, and there was no fear of the waggon 
running onto their heels, he let them trot a little. 

“They’re about the willingest team I ever see,” he 
said, turning to smile on her pleasantly. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


CHILDREN OF RETICENCE . 

F OR Lou, these were days of thoughtfulness, but 
there was no conclusion. The more she saw of 
the world, the less she understood it. The more 
freely she mingled with people, the more lonely she be- 
came. The students at the college, tempting to her 
curiosity at first, were soon exploited. The young men, 
full of their own conceit, brave in their lack of expe- 
rience, hopeful out of pure vanity or because of the 
vagueness of their ambitions and the limitless time be- 
fore them; crude, conscious or flippant in their atten- 
tions, or uninteresting in their selfish indifference — these 
young men did not appeal to her. The girls were quite 
as helpless as herself. To many of them, indeed, the 
association of the college brought some excitement. But 
this electrical atmosphere was not happiness. All about 
her was the pursuit she had wished to join, along prac- 
tical lines, an embryo world of preparation for the reali- 
ties of life, but where was the reality? Not one of these 
boys could give an inspiring reason for his endeavour, 
and few of them could define their aims. The girls were 
even less intelligible, less satisfied, less definite. Was 
there, then, no satisfaction anywhere in the world? Was 
280 


CHILDREN OF RETICENCE 


281 

all that glow of life she had so long watched from a dis- 
tance only herself in multiple? The songs and laughter 
of Tompkins Avenue Park that had haunted her child- 
hood, the merry voices of the Square that had called to 
her in recent years ; were these but surface sounds, no 
more to those who uttered them than were her own songs 
to her? 

This was the progress of the disenchantment which the 
arrest of Thekla had begun. Scarcely conscious of the 
fact, she often thought of Thekla, the embodied genius 
of the free, wholesome, joyous life she coveted. 

Lou often spoke to Dora of these things. 

One day she said: “It was through Thekla’s misfor- 
tune that I gained my own freedom. But what good 
does it do for me to be free? Poor Thekla! I wonder 
what became of her?” 

“Do you think,” asked Dora, thoughtfully, “it is right 
for girls like me to be so protected and comfortable when 
there are so many others just thrown into the world to 
get along as they can?” 

“It is all a big mystery, Dora.” 

The windows of Dora’s sitting-room overlooked 
Gramercy Park. It had rained the night before, and 
there had been frequent showers all the morning. In 
the afternoon the clouds disappeared. A warm wind was 
blowing, and the sun poured in almost August heat upon 
the earth. 

Dora was leaning from the open window, looking now 
along the street, and now at the glistening foliage of the 
park, still moist from the showers. Lou was tilted back 
in a low rocker, her feet on the window-seat, a copy of 


282 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


the Rubaiyat in her hands. She had been glancing 
through it as they talked. 

“A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, a Jug of 
Wine, a Loaf of Bread — and Thou beside me singing in 
the Wilderness.” And reading this, it was easy to 
feel that, after all, love — passionate and tender — the old- 
fashioned love that brought life and death to Juliet and 
Marguerite, was the one great thing in the world. 

“Do you know, Lou, that Dick is coming?” 

“When?” 

“In a week or two.” 

Lou took the hand thrust out to her and held it tight. 
Her thoughts flew to that last day with Adams. 

“What is it, Lou ?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Why don’t you ever talk to me of him?” 

“Who?” 

Dora laughed softly. 

“What makes you think that?” 

“But don’t you?” 

“How do I know? He is so serious, Dora.” 

“Of course,” said Dora, “there is no one like Dick.” 
They pressed each other’s hands, for there was no selfish 
complacence in these words. The uncertainty, the half- 
fearful tenderness breathing through them made them 
pathetic in their lightness. 

Again the verses caught Lou’s eyes, and by their 
magic, during a long silence, she moved as though 
through a rosy haze. She dropped the book. 

“It is beautiful to dream of life — but that is not 
living. What am I to do?” 


CHILDREN OF RETICENCE 283 

Dora suddenly drew back from the window, her eyes 
wide with astonishment. 

“What is it? What have you seen?” 

Lou rose quickly and stepped to the window. Dora 
put out her hand and drew her down by her side. 

“Dora,” exclaimed Lou, “did you see Dick?” 

“Yes. He has just come home.” 

“Then I am going.” 

Dora gripped her hand and held her back. 

“I had better go. He will come to you presently, or 
Aunt Susan will send for you, and I would rather not be 

here. I can see him later, when ” she put her arm 

about Dora and kissed her, adding lightly, “when the 
worst is over.” 

“Don’t go,” pleaded Dora. “If he should come I 
would not know what to do. Stay with me.” 

“No, indeed,” said Lou. “You must not be afraid of 
Dick. That is foolish of you.” 

Dora would not let her go. 

“Do you think it is wrong for me to love him so? 
Should I try to hide it f rom him ? Do you think he will 
care for me at all if I let him see? But how can I help 
it, Lou?” 

“I know it is not wrong. I would give the world to 
be able to love some one in it as you love Dick.” 

“Well,” said Dora, “come and help me look pretty, 
then. What shall I wear?” 

“Dora, Dora,” laughed Lou, “you shall not change a 
thing. If I could possibly make you look lovelier, I 
wouldn’t, for Dick’s sake. Don’t you know how sweet 
you are?” 


284 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Am I really , Lou?” 

“If Dick fails to make you understand, I will be your 
lover. If I could tell you just how you look to me now !” 

“Tell me.” 

Dora, leaning toward her, smiled in a half-incredulous 
expectancy. Her large, soft eyes, her small, delicately 
moulded face, possessed a purely spiritual beauty. It 
was as if a tender and innocent soul had taken bodily 
form. 

Before Lou could answer they heard Dick’s voice in 
the hall below. He was coming upstairs, calling Dora’s 
name. It was a pleasant, rather eager voice, a boyish 
note still modifying its strong, masculine quality. The 
change in it was not apparent to Dora. She heard only 
the familiar note, and its effect upon her was sudden and 
irresistible. She jumped from her seat, forgetting Lou, 
forgetting all her fears, and, running from the room, 
hurried down to meet him, laughing and calling his name 
joyously. 

They came in, hand in hand. 

“Mercy on us, Dick,” cried Lou, “what a man you 
are !” 

“Do you think so?” He laughed complacently. 
“Well, I don’t see that you have changed. You were 
born at forty, I believe, and the years have not yet over- 
taken you.” 

“What a horrid speech !” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said, drawing Dora beside 
him on the window-seat and patting the hand he held. 
“Forty is a becoming age to you. My last true love was 
forty. If it had not been for her husband I should have 


CHILDREN OF RETICENCE 


285 


| married her, I think. She was the youngest and most 
amiable member of our party.” 

He looked into Dora’s face, radiant with a tender hap- 
piness, glanced pleasantly at Lou, and back at Dora. 

Lou noticed a growing wonder in his eyes, a faint play 
of emotions. He was evidently a little surprised and 
bewildered. There had been something unexpected in 
their meeting. She left them soon and walked slowly 
home, wondering what would be the outcome of this old 
romance. 

“He will surely love her,” she thought. “Dora will be 
happy, and that ought to content me, I suppose.” 

When Lou had gone Richard looked quietly into 
Dora’s eyes, until the gray had deepened into blue, and 
the moisture rising in them formed little jewels on their 
lashes. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her 
soft lips and burning cheeks again and again. Dora 
put her arm about his neck and clung to him closely. 
This seemed very natural to her now. It only meant to 
her that, after all, life was a beautiful and happy thing, 
that her doubts and forebodings were but the shadows 
of a possible evil that was not to be. 

To Richard, however, this was a boundless surprise. 
He could not have conceived of such a meeting with Dora. 
His little playmate, Dora. When they had been together 
before the relations natural between a boy and girl fond 
of each other were theirs. He had scarcely thought of 
her while he was away. Pretty girls and sensuous women 
had begun to attract him. He had found a new and 
curious interest in all things feminine, but Dora had 
never been associated with these developing sensibilities. 


286 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


No thought of her had ever followed him in what adven- 
tures he had found. If it chanced to occur to him that 
he was expected to marry her some day, the idea passed 
without moving him either way. Marriage was a long 
way off — one of the events of that distant and settled 
era he never expected to reach. When the time came he 
would do as he pleased. His life had not been one to 
modify the complacent, self-assurance born in him. His 
mother idolized him. His father thought him well 
enough, and quietly indulged him, giving him all the 
money he could reasonably use, and allowing liberally for 
the follies and extravagances of youth. He was used to 
having what he wanted. 

A new desire meant a new gratification. Life was 
pleasant to him; therefore, as fresh desires appeared, he 
depended on them, followed them, and, as yet, they had 
not failed him, for they came in crowding numbers with 
his maturity. Adversity would have developed his char- 
acter into something forcible and effective, like his 
father’s, modified, perhaps, by his mother’s negative 
nature. Luxury and the service of others had made of 
him a pleasant, self-indulgent youth. He was outwardly 
saved by an inherent manliness, a strain of his father’s 
strength and his mother’s silent pride. He had been able 
to secure what he wished so far, without injury to him- 
self, and he was not one to plunge recklessly into dis- 
sipation and disgrace from a wanton love of revel. He 
was sufficiently romantic to find a pleasure in the poets 
and in travel. He had preferred literature and the lan- 
guages to other studies, and he felt a vague disturbance 
at the thought that he must soon abandon the pleasant, 


CHILDREN OF RETICENCE 


m 


rather irregular life of books, companions and travel, 
for the commercial career his father expected of him. 
He knew that some day he would be called upon to take 
his father’s place, and that he must learn to handle the 
vast interests he controlled; but that, too, had always 
seemed to him one of the far-off things pertaining to 
what might well have been another time and world. 

He had purposely deceived his mother as to the date 
of his return, for he wished to surprise her. After the 
first greetings she had sent him away that she might 
dress. 

“Run in and see Dora,” she had said, “and bring her 
back with you, if your cousin Lou is not with her. Lou 
is stranger than ever, Dick. She has quite thrown us all 
over and has gone in for a career. Your father tried to 
persuade her not to, but she would have her own way. 
Of course, she is all right, you know, but it wears on me 
to have her here. You never know just what she will 
say.” 

Mrs. Vandemere enjoyed only such conversation as 
she had heard before and could anticipate. Unusual 
events and new ideas made her uncomfortable. 

Richard stepped through the passage between the two 
houses, and telling the butler who met him that he would 
announce himself, ran upstairs, more anxious to see Lou 
than Dora. He wanted to find out what she was up to. 
He hoped she was there. 

When Dora met him, he took her hands and kissed her 
cheek. A sudden feeling of warmth and pleasure pos- 
sessed him. Her happy welcome passed through his 
veins. He stooped again and kissed her lips. He expe- 


288 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


rienced a singular sensation at their tender pressure. He 
took her hands and went into her room, wonderfully con- 
scious of her presence. He forgot about Lou’s affairs. 
Looking at Dora again and again, he marvelled at the 
depth and passion of the love pouring from her eyes and 
quivering over her face. The hand he held seemed to be 
charged with a subtle fluid that passed from it through 
his body. He did not recognise the nature of the emo- 
tion, for it was a thing far more tender and pure than 
he had felt before. When Lou had left them, and he held 
Dora in his arms, he believed that he loved her. He knew 
that he was loved, and a fine, triumphant emotion, not 
unmixed with something plaintive and melancholy, swept 
through him. It was as Lou had fancied. He loved 
her, as love is usually conceived, and Dora was supremely 
happy. He was a child of the senses, but she was not. 
She truly loved him. She felt that expressions of her love 
were sweet to him and that she might, therefore, pour it 
out unchecked. It was this that brought her happiness. 

Could Lou have witnessed this tableau she would have 
seen its surface beauty, and it would have intensified her 
present mood as such things in life and literature, viewed 
superficially, have thrown a glamour over the youthful 
longings of the world and embittered its age. 

All the way home Lou thought of Ed. “I should have 
written,” she told herself. “I have never done my part, 
except ” She stopped as the memory of their part- 

ing came to her. She stood motionless near her home 
corner, looking down, her brow wrinkled in perplexity, 
her rosy cheeks revealing a sweet confusion. “I must 
love him,” she thought. 


CHAPTER XX. 


'AN ANCIENT FAITH. 

F AR from all of these disturbances Adams spent 
the summer on his father’s farm in Iowa. 

Upon his return home he had found himself 
at once in the midst of the atmosphere in which he had 
spent his youth. The national transformation during 
fifty years had scarcely touched this inland farm of one 
hundred and sixty acres. 

When, some fifty years before, Silas Adams left 
Massachusetts in a covered waggon and settled on this 
strip of land, he brought with him the God, the fireside 
and the country of New England, and he had preserved 
them there. He could speculate concerning the world 
about him and could discuss it shrewdly with his neigh- 
bours in the village store. Its reality, however, never 
touched him. He was one of those men who had, for 
thirty years, voted the Republican ticket because of Lin- 
coln. The freedom of the slaves and the Boston Tea 
Party were still for him the most recent events in Amer- 
ican history — the perennial expression of its spirit. He 
read a farm journal and the Weekly Tribune. The 
enormous growth of the nation, the gossip from it, the 
kaleidoscopic pictures of its tumultuous progress always 
289 


290 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


interested and sometimes amazed him, but he followed 
these things very much as he did Gulliver upon his 
travels. New York, Chicago and the thousand-acre 
wheat farms of the West were to him, at times, the fabu- 
lous creations of magic, and at times the thrilling evi- 
dences of the boundless resources of his country and his 
God. In his own personal character he was a curious 
blending of courage, shrewdness, reverence and irasci- 
bility. Incessant toil had been required to subdue his 
patch of wilderness, but this was a thing he had expected 
and accomplished heroically. 

As the years followed, and as the land, becoming more 
and more lavish in its products, yielded no greater profit 
to him, but required of him the same incessant toil, there 
had been times when he feared the country might be 
going wrong. Once every two years, however, the Re- 
publican candidate for governor passed through his vil- 
lage, and from the rear platform of his private car 
allayed his fears, and during the intervals of patient 
faith and waiting his local Grange sustained his hope. 

This man of little faults and mighty virtues, and the 
atmosphere in which he lived, had been in recent years 
almost forgotten by Adams. When he left the station at 
the village and began his walk along the country road 
toward the farm they returned to him, shadowy at first, 
like the remembrance of a dream. When he turned in at 
the barnyard gate he saw his father lifting a dripping 
pail from a barrel by the pig-pen door. The old man 
stood bolt upright when he saw him, but the flush on his 
rugged face and the flash from his blue eyes expressed an 
unmistakable resentment. 


AN ANCIENT FAITH 


291 


“I couldn’t meet you,” he explained, explosively, “be- 
cause that hired man of mine is in the sulks and I had to 
do* the chores.” 

Adams hurried to where he stood, his own face radiant 
with pleasure, took the pail from his father, and shook 
the unresisting hand. He lifted the pail again and 
turned with his father toward the door of the pen, laugh- 
ing and questioning him eagerly. 

“You will get your pants all swill,” said the old man, 
reaching for the pail. 

“Oh, hang the pants,” said Adams. 

“I caught him whaling the horses. I gave him thun- 
der ; now, you bet I did. Now, he’s threatened to leave, 
and I told him if he left me with all this spring work to 
do he’d go on a stretcher. He’s up in the hayloft now, 
wondering, I guess, if he’d better risk it. Better give 
me that pail.” 

“Oh, that’ll be all right until I can change my 
clothes.” 

“Well, there’s plenty of overalls.” He turned sud- 
denly toward the house and called, “Mother, here’s Ed 
come. Bring out a pair of overalls.” 

A joyous exclamation issued from the open kitchen 
door, and instantly a matronly woman came running out, 
absently and hurriedly taking off her apron and rolling 
her sleeves down as she came. The smiles that dimpled 
her cheeks, the joy beaming from her face, the tears 
that suddenly filled her eyes, seemed to awaken old 
Silas from his wrathful trance, and while the good wife 
was reaching up and around the stalwart shoulders of 
her boy, he jostled in between them, his own face aglow 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


292 

for the first time with spontaneous greeting, and they 
shook hands all over again. 

At the sound of their voices an aged dog came from 
the house and limped slowly toward them. He came to 
Adams and looked up at him for a moment in calm in- 
quiry, wagging his tail slowly. 

“He’s getting old,” said Adams, taking the upturned 
face between his palms, seeing with a gripping tender- 
ness the look of wistful recognition creep into the eyes 
now almost blind. Then there came to them the distant 
sound of barking, the quick tinkle of a cow-bell. The 
old dog pricked his ears and turned his head toward the 
pasture, rising in a hill across the road. Out of the 
woods at its summit straggled the herd. They moved 
sedately down the hill, a dog behind them. 

“Whose that?” asked Ed. 

“That’s young Shep,” said his father. “He’s Carlo’s 
son. He’s out of Jeff’s Daisy. You remember her; or 
did they have her when you were here?” 

“Why, yes,” said the mother; “don’t you remember? 
She came the year before Ed left.” 

“How does Carlo take it — don’t he mind?” 

“Well, they fixed it up between them. He taught the 
young fellow how, and now Shep brings them down to the 
gate there, and then Carlo takes them in.” 

The old dog meanwhile had limped away and was 
watching the movements of the herd from the centre of 
the roac^ 

Adams put on the overalls his mother brought him, 
fed the pigs, went with his father to the granary, picking 
his way carefully through the drove of hens huddled in 


AN ANCIENT FAITH 


293 


front of its doorway. He saw his father take half a peck 
of corn and scatter it. He climbed up the perpendicular 
ladder into the hayloft and threw down the hay. There 
he saw, stretched at full length, fast asleep, a rather 
surly looking, coarse-featured, large-framed man, one 
of those human flotsams that drift from the cities, and 
that keep their souls and bodies together for a season 
toiling in the country and grumbling at their toil. He 
saw him beating the horses at the plough, felt the weight 
of his father’s unmerited distress and trouble. He 
would have aroused the man from his slumbers and kicked 
him from the place, joyful in the opportunity to do the 
wholesome work he had found so hard. Then he remem- 
bered Karl Fischer, and that he had seen such men as 
these in prison labour gangs, shuffling through the 
swarming byways of the city, sitting in dumb despair 
upon the benches of the parks, and he turned away sick 
with the mystery. Had not the world begot this man, so 
poorly equipped in mind and sentiment, given him an 
unruly body, tyrannical moods and passions, and but the 
shadow of a soul? 

When he came down the cows were at the stable door, 
the old dog close behind them, the young one eager and 
laughing some distance in the rear. They milked the 
cows, to the evident satisfaction of the cats perched upon 
the mangers, purring, watchful, serene, sure of the prov- 
idence that watched over them. It was almost dark in 
the stable when they had finished. They walked in the 
twilight from the barnyard, carrying the milk to the 
house. To Adams’ prodigal senses there was a delicious 
odour arising from his pails. 


m 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


His mother came briskly from the sitting-room as they 
entered, a lighted lamp in her hands. A glance from 
her eyes as she saw him brought a lump to his throat — 
the light she held shining upon her face made more 
luminous its own expression of motherly tenderness. 

Adams was so glad to get home that he could not eat. 
This fact made more conspicuous to his mother the worn 
expression of his face and the circles about his eyes; 
and so, as much to convince her that he was not really 
sick as because he found it easy to make the revelation in 
their sympathetic presence, he told them the story of 
Karl Fischer, and his futile efforts in his behalf, and 
how that experience had disturbed his plans because 
it had shaken the attitude in which he was pursuing 
life. 

The bedtime of that household ordinarily varied only 
with the daylight. They were usually asleep almost as 
soon as they could no longer see to work, but on this 
evening midnight found them all awake. The old man 
sat with his hands about his knee, his knee to his chin, 
watching with alert, comprehending, unwavering eyes 
the very lips from which these strange adventures fell. 
His boy was speaking of the great country that he loved, 
of the great metropolis of which he had so often, in his 
ignorance, been glad to boast. It was an amazing rev- 
elation, requiring a circle such as only God Himself could 
draw to encompass its significance to him. 

The mother saw through it all only that her boy was 
troubled. All that she could comprehend in what he said 
touched her with surprise and pity, but he alone she 
could completely comprehend. 


295 


'AN ANCIENT FAITH 

“And so you see,” said Adams, “I have been to the 
city and returned a little the worse for wear, and that’s 
about all.” 

His mother looked up quickly at the note of chagrin 
and failure in his voice. 

“You need a rest, Ed,” she said, “and that’s all.” 

“A week’s ploughing will polish him up,” the old man 
commented. 

“You are right,” said Adams, getting up and stretch- 
ing his arms toward the ceiling. “Good, hard work out 
of doors is what I need.” 

“If you had got that old fellow free,” the father re- 
sumed presently, “it’d come pretty near being the mak- 
ing of you, wouldn’t it ?” 

“It would have made some difference,” said Adams, 
dryly, “to him and to me.” 

“Well,” said his father, with a thoughtful scrutiny of 
his boot, his head a little to one side, his eyes squinting 
the better to see a long distance, “I don’t know as it 
matters to him. It seems to me we about done our worst 
by him while he was running loose. I can’t see that 
there was much but misery ahead for him. I guess, 
maybe, it was an act of mercy to put him somewhere 
where at least he couldn’t be robbed again. But it seems 
to me, son, that you might have done better than you 
did. Couldn’t you have modified that last raking you 
gave to the judge?” 

“But it was the truth, father. I didn’t say one word 
more than the truth.” 

“It may be so,” the old man said, shaking his head 
sorrowfully. “I sometimes think that this country ain’t 


296 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

all it ought to be, but I’d feel pretty bad if all you say 
is true.” 

After another pause, the old man looked up quickly, 
and said: “What’s the matter with your New York 
churches, anyhow? It seems to me that bank defaulters 
and stock jobbers do amazing well there. You under- 
stand, I don’t mean that thieves and rascals should be 
kept outside the church. It’s my notion that God wants 
them there. But what I object to is their being chosen 
for deacons before they’re found out, and suspended 
afterwards. It’s not the good men the church should be 
so anxious to receive, and it’s not them it should make 
so much of. I should turn that round about. It was 
just the other day in town that I saw O’Brien. I was 
passing his saloon, and he stood there in the door. 
‘How’s business, Jim?’ I asked him, and he said, ‘Awful 
good. And how’s it with you?’ says he. I said that 
unless all signs failed, we’d have an awful crop of winter 
wheat, and it wouldn’t bring enough to pay for harvest- 
ing it ; and that the attendance at church last Sunday 
was pretty poor. I guess he thought I was joking, and 
so he laughed. Jim is a good-natured fellow, you know, 
and I said to him, ‘Jim, why don’t you come to church 
and bring your crowd along?’ ‘I’m a bigger man here,’ 
he said. ‘I don’t suppose I’d be so popular there.’ 
‘You know we’d like to have you come,’ I said. ‘I’ll bet 
you now that if you did, the whole congregation would 
get up and sing ; and I’ll tell you more,’ I said ; ‘if you’ll 
join, I’ll put you in for deacon in my place.’ ‘And you 
take the saloon?’ said he. ‘No,’ said I, ‘you keep your 
saloon. All you need to promise is to stick to the job of 


AN ANCIENT FAITH JOT 

deacon of that church for five years, and run your saloon 
if you can.’ He said he’d think about it, but then he 
was joking. I don’t suppose he thought that I meant 
it any of the time, but I did. And I guess I’ve influence 
enough in the church to have done it. I suppose, now, 
in New York that wouldn’t do?” 

“No,” said Adams, “the churches of New York are 
better suited to men like Judge Preston. I don’t think 
as a deacon of St. Paul’s Karl Fischer would amount to 
much.” 

There was a look of grave anxiety upon the mother’s 
countenance, and Ed noticing it, said: 

“Does that grieve you, mother?” 

She looked a little confused, and her lips trembled as 
she Said, “I hope, Ed, you haven’t turned against the 
church. I hope you haven’t.” 

“Well, mother,” he said, “I will tell you how it is. 
When I first went to the city, I went to church. I sat in 
the same pew with Mrs. Storrs, not far from the Pres- 
tons and the Yandemeres. I didn’t analyse the matter 
closely, but I did my share in keeping up that institu- 
tion. I think that whatever religious feeling I had was 
gratified by this performance, and I know that I realised 
thoroughly its good policy. It is true, however, that 
attendance upon this church didn’t quicken either my re- 
ligious perception or feelings. It only gratified them. 
When I was a boy I loved God and worshipped the 
angels, and had many tender feelings when you knelt 
with me to pray. From that time the religious feeling 
in me was dormant until it was aroused by Karl Fischer. 
Since then I have seen helpless innocence in men and 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


298 

women adrift in the world, wallowing often in the mud. 
In what this has led me to feel and do, I have met with 
opposition or a cold response at best from those who 
constitute the church. They wish to live in ignorance 
and to be protected from the spectacles that Christ would 
have sought for and wept over, and held before them as 
specimens of their handiwork. The church is too much 
of a social institution. We have made an idol of it.” 

“Why, Ed!” exclaimed his mother. She looked at 
him in distressed appeal. 

“It’s true, mother,” he said more gently. “And the 
proof is this very distress you feel. We have come to 
look upon the church as sacred in itself. To criticise it 
is to be profane. I tell you we are making an idol of 
the church, and as such it stands between us and the light. 
By maintaining these idols, these social images of Christ, 
we can believe ourselves a Christian people, but the man 
who would really follow Christ must walk alone. I can’t 
do it. I am afraid of hunger and rags, of failure, of 
loneliness and ridicule, but I can withhold my offerings 
to the Idol, and I will.” 

By this time, Adams had grown passionate again. 
He remembered the self-righteous haughty manner of 
Judge Preston’s rebuke, and the church-going world’s 
approval of this man. He remembered Mrs. Storrs and 
the Christian grace with which she would shield her 
household from him without prospects and Judge Pres- 
ton’s favour. He smiled bitterly and said aloud, but to 
himself : “Christ said, ‘Be not of the world,’ and the 
church says, ‘Shield your daughters from vulgar things. 
If you do go to Newport, don’t be loud. Dine at the 


AN ANCIENT FAITH 


299 


Waldorf, if you can pay the bill. Protect yourself 
against adventurers and thieves. Be not of the world. 
Make your money in Wall Street, if you must, and spend 
it at Sherry’s, if you will, but we draw the line positively 
at fast living on the Bowery.’ ” 

“My son,” said the old man slowly, “do you still know 
how to pray?” 

There was silence for a while. Adams, his face still 
flushed with passion, looked straight before him at a 
pattern of the wall paper. His mother, almost in tears, 
was knitting nervously. 

“Let us pray.” Old Silas got upon his knees, pushed 
his chair from him until he could grip it with his arms 
outstretched, closed his eyes for a moment, then opened 
them and turning his face upward, looked toward 
Heaven. 

“O God, our Father, you have heard what my son has 
said, and you know if it is true. I don’t, and he don’t, 
but you do. I feel that he believes it and is troubled. 
You and I know that his mother is distressed, and that all 
these things have brought me again to Thee in direct and 
earnest petition for help. We must have help here. 
Give us help. Comfort us and teach us the way. If the 
church has become to us as an Idol, help us to see it. 
Let us no longer worship it, but show us the way to Thee. 

“We are all Thy children. Have so many of Thy 
children in the church become worldly, vain ; do so many 
of them look upon themselves as peculiarly select in man- 
ners and in morals that the great masses of Thy children 
outside the church can’t mingle freely with them? Are 
Thy children in the church too comfortable, too exclusive, 


300 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


too cold, as my boy says ? Is that why the Holy Spirit, 
so persuasive, does not draw all men to it? Is it because 
so many of those who enter it, enter it for other reasons, 
so that the power of Thy magnet grows weak through 
them ? 

“Oh, let not Thy children of the church pollute the 
temple. Help us to remember that we are joined to- 
gether only as Thy obedient children, the better to know 
and to do Thy will. Let us not take credit to ourselves, 
nor seek earthly honour and esteem, nor crave indul- 
gences for this act. Oh, let Thy children of the church 
seek only Thee, seek only to draw all men toward Thee in 
love and tenderness.” 

The old man paused a moment, an expression of sur- 
prised appeal in his eyes. 

“We want help !” he cried. “We want an answer to 
this prayer. I want to feel Thee near me. I want to 
hear Thy voice.” The chair rose and fell with his hands, 
resounding upon the floor with each of these sentences. 
Then there was silence. His old head, with its flushed 
face and gray hood of hair, sank dejectedly as he contin- 
ued in a gentle voice: 

“I am now to pray for my son and for that old man 
we robbed, and perverted and sent to jail, and I must be 
heard.” 

Again he waited. Suddenly he turned toward his 
wife, with an expression of consternation. 

“Mary,” he asked sharply, “where is Pete, anyhow? 
Has he had his supper?” He rose to his feet, his wife 
with him. 

“I declare,” she faltered, “we clean forgot him.” 


AN ANCIENT FAITH 


SOI 


“Well, you get the supper, and I’ll get Pete.” 

Adams followed his father to the barn. 

“Shall I go up ?” he asked. 

“No, son, this is my thing to do.” 

“Silas,” came the mother’s voice, “he’s been in and et, 
and I guess he’s gone to bed.” 

They tramped silently back to the house, and the old 
man went upstairs. 

He strode at once to the room and to the bed where 
Pete lay snoring. It was his one intention to ask for- 
giveness for the harsh words of the day, but it required 
vigorous treatment to waken the sleeper, and by the time 
Pete was sitting up in bed rubbing his eyes, Silas was in 
something of an aggressive mood. 

“What time is it?” asked Pete. 

“About midnight.” 

“What do you want then?” His manner was surly. 
“I could have lit out and sued you for my pay, but I 
didn’t. I’ll go to work in the morning.” He threw 
himself down, with his back toward Silas. 

“I don’t care whether you go or stay. My boy can 
do your work.” 

Pete sat up again and glared at him. “Oh, you don’t, 
eh? You woke me up to pack me off, did you?” 

“No, I didn’t.” He turned away and closed his eyes. 
When he opened them, he spoke in a gentle voice. “I 
want you to forgive me for my harsh words and for the 
threats I used.” 

Pete looked at him stupidly, and dropped his glance 
before the mild, bright eyes now almost uncanny with a 
spiritual light. 


302 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Of course,” said Silas, “you can’t beat my horses, but 
that’s no excuse for my abusing you.” 

“Well, I can’t plough with that team. You can’t keep 
Daisy in the furrow — the damned old ” 

The old man broke in wrathfully. “What good does 
it do to jerk her about and beat her? Do you think she 
is any steadier so?” 

“Well, let her keep in the furrow then.” 

“And you was jerking them both and whaling them 
both ; I saw you.” 

“Well, they’ve got to know who is boss if I handle 
them.” 

“Well, you keep your hands off of them. You hear 
me now. If you go to bullying and maltreating ” 

“Silas,” called Mrs. Adams up the stairway, “now 
don’t get worked up all over again.” 

“My God,” he groaned, “what a job this is !” 

He stood for a moment in silence and then closed his 
eyes. Again he opened them, and spoke gently. 

“I’ll tell you, Pete, we’ll let my boy do the ploughing 
and you and I’ll mend fences and get the potatoes in.” 
He held out his hairy, calloused hand, his fingers bent 
and stiff, and said with a smile as sweet as a good 
woman’s : 

“Let’s shake.” 

Pete hesitated, looking down. 

“Come. Let’s shake.” 

Pete gave his hand to the other’s grip, and pulling it 
back again, laid down, his face to the wall. 

When Silas knelt again, he drew the chair close to him, 
leaned his elbows on it, thrusting his arms through the 


303 


AN ANCIENT FAITH 

rounds of the back. There was peace in his attitude and 
in his upturned face the tender serenity of a great child, 
who feels that he is listened to and loved. He spoke 
softly, as one communing with himself. 

“Dear Father, now speak to my son, and comfort him. 
Fill him with an unselfish love that he may wish to serve 
Thee. If You have work for a lawyer to do, give him 
the wisdom to do it well.” He paused for a few mo- 
ments, and then asked quietly: 

“Why is this old man in jail? I want to know before 
I can enjoy my liberty. Here am I in the midst of Thy 
good fields, and if I work I may have plenty. Why does 
my brother, another stumbling child of Thine, languish 
in a jail?” He seemed to listen. After a prolonged 
silence, he bent his head and murmured : 

“Forgive us our trespasses.” Again he lifted his 
head, pushed the chair from him, and gripping it, ex- 
claimed in a loud voice, “Forgive us our jails. Forgive 
us our churches. Forgive us our benevolence and our 
asylums. Forgive us the feeble charity we offer Thee, 
and make us mighty to redeem. Amen.” 

This hearty Amen, the prompt rising from the knees, 
the mother’s sigh and smile and quick bustling afterward 
to get the lamps, the father’s business-like, cheery 
“Good-night, son; I’ll call you at four,” brought to 
Adams the final sense of his home-coming, for all these 
were familiar things. He could not be like his father, 
but he could respect and love him, and he knew that, 
whether for success or failure, this home had produced 
him, nurtured him and sent him forth, and to return to it 
now for a season would do him good. 


CHAPTER XXL 


A SINGULAR WOOING. 

N EW YORK was not so all-important, so terrible 
in its blind, unwieldy progress, viewed across a 
thousand miles of steaming earth in spring. On 
hot August days, as Adams worked in the hayfield, it re- 
appeared to his vision as he had imagined it in his youth, 
alluring and f antastic in its beauty. Why is it, he won- 
dered, that this is so? His first work had been to pre- 
pare a petition for the pardon of Karl Fischer. When 
this had been sent to Washington, he spent his days in 
the field, becoming more tranquil as he toiled. 

In the evenings, as he felt the> pervading contentment 
of the sitting-room, the unmistakable pleasure that his 
father and mother found in each other’s almost silent 
companionship, thoughts of Lou, always present, became 
more tender and wistful. He saw his mother in a new 
light. She had been a good mother. Her children 
loved her because she had wanted them all, and had reared 
them with a cheerful sympathy. 

Adams was the youngest of them. His three sisters 
and two brothers were all married, and living now with 
their growing families, at various distances from the 
homestead — all within a radius of forty miles. He was 
304 


A SINGULAR WOOING 


305 


the uncle of fourteen nephews and nieces. They had 
come, and would probably continue to come, from five to 
eight every two years. Every time these little ones were 
mentioned, it was with a note of tender anxiety, because 
of some sickness or accident, or of exuberant delight in 
their phenomenal ways and strange adventures. Before 
Adams had met them all he knew them. Seen through 
the doting eyes of their grandparents, they took be- 
witching and alluring forms, at once delighting him and 
making him lonely. Occasionally he rode to the farms 
of two of his sisters in the neighbourhood, and they made 
frequent visits, bringing their children with them. 
There was a magic in this domestic atmosphere that 
moved him mysteriously. His was an intimate and 
pleasant part, and yet, in spite of this, he seemed some- 
thing of an outsider there. 

At harvest time there was a great annual event, when 
all the family gathered for a day and a night at the 
homestead. It was a time of great labour, of noise and 
of confusion, of lusty bustling, of hearty jokes — an in- 
timate and unthinking companionship. The house, the 
barnyard, the fields seemed to be alive with children. 
They were everywhere. In the house, the women were 
busy amassing a mighty dinner. The men ate first. 
When they had finished, they went to a smooth portion 
of the meadow, behind the barn, and, in good-natured 
recklessness, squandered an hour in quoits and wrestling 
bouts, and foolish foot-races, in which no one cared to 
win. His brothers and sisters made Adams the butt of 
their affectionate wit, taunting him with his bachelor- 
hood. 


306 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“In a place as big as New York,” said Jeff, “I should 
think you could find someone who would have you.” 

He was told that he could not fall back upon that 
place, unless he was willing to cut Tom Wallings out. 

“And you haven’t much time,” said Susan, “for they 
are to be married next week.” 

“The old cradle can come down from the attic now,” 
said Silas, smiling broadly. 

He was frequently accused of indifference to his coun- 
try’s welfare. All this was expressive merely of good- 
will and of simplicity. It was not the atmosphere of 
polite society, but of an exceedingly honest and whole- 
some one. 

At first he had been disturbed by the contrast between 
Lou — restless, uncertain and sometimes irritable, and his 
sisters, as he knew them in their youth — mischievous with 
their lovers, but happy in truth to accept their destinies 
as wives and mothers, and now absorbed in their homes 
and children. They often called them little nuisances. 
Even the annoyances of their days had their roots in ten- 
derness. This contrast was a distress to him. He was 
profoundly shocked by the fact that sometimes his mem- 
ory of Lou filled him with irritation. In the end, how- 
ever, the fact that he could be so seriously disturbed made 
clear to him how intimately she had become a part of his 
being. If he were to be again at peace with himself, he 
must be at peace in his memories and his thoughts of her. 
And he came to see her as she was — a nature wholesome 
and dainty in itself, growing alone in an atmosphere of 
religious vanity and self-deceit. It was surely enough 
to expect from a young girl when she had kept herself 


A SINGULAR WOOING 30 1 

aloof in a home like hers. For her, it had been a dis- 
tressing struggle in the dark — the spirit of a happy and 
sensitive child ignored. Her normal desires for knowl- 
edge and the natural delights and beauties of life had 
been denied. Deprived of wholesome food, she had eaten 
but little, and was hungry. As he saw her now in this 
light he loved her with a greater tenderness. 

After this reconciliation he dreamed homely dreams, 
more domestic than romantic in their nature. He talked 
with his mother concerning Lou, comforted and pleased 
by her simple understanding. The homes of her chil- 
dren were a delight to her, and she saw another of 
these homes growing out of the hopes of her young- 
est boy. She sometimes smiled at his gravity and laid 
it to the natural forebodings of a lover before the nest 
is built. 

“It is a great thing to have a home and children,” he 
said one evening to her. His mother made a pleasant 
assent, and in the silence that followed the vague do- 
mestic pictures that formed and faded in his dreams were 
suddenly disturbed by a vivid memory of the Storrs 
household and the restless spirit of Lou. He was a 
man who put plain questions to himself, and now in his 
thoughts he asked, Is she ready to become a happy 
mother? Presently, he spoke aloud: 

“I want children,” he said. “I would like to talk 
with Lou about this, and yet I think I am afraid.” 

“Why should you talk with her about that now?” his 
mother asked. 

“I hardly know,” said Ed. “Probably if her own 
home had been a happy one like this, I would not think 


308 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


about it. The domestic atmosphere is not the natural, 
pleasant thing for her it was for my sisters.” 

“Oh, I think,” said his mother, “that when a girl is 
married, and has a home, she becomes a mother naturally. 
Of course, she does. How could she be happy unless she 
did?” 

Adams did not talk with her again of this, for he saw 
that to make his mother realise any other possibility 
concerning Lou would only shock her, and make the girl 
he loved something of a monstrosity in her eyes. For 
his mother all things centred in the home and grew out 
of it. She had never seen life in any other aspect than 
the one which had surrounded her, and which gave this 
country its ancient fame. The swarms of girls and 
women rushing through the streets of the city in the 
morning to their work would have been an amazing spec- 
tacle to her. If she were told their thoughts, their am- 
bitions, the nature of the life they sought, even in seek- 
ing a husband and a home, she would have scarcely un- 
derstood. She had heard rumours of race suicide, of 
women so devoted to society, to the professions, to the 
ambition of a personal career, that they objected to old- 
fashioned notions of the woman’s part; but they had 
passed through her comprehension like the strange noises 
of a fitful wind. Adams, however, knew that New York 
was not built upon the model of a home, and that a girl 
raised in its atmosphere might need to think of these 
things — that some individual effort might be required 
if a real household were to be established there. 

The simple goodness of his mother, the hearty com- 
panionship with his brothers and sisters, the mischievous 


A SINGULAR WOOING 309 

affection of the children, his prolonged association with 
the uncomplaining earth, active and fruitful, all were 
good for him. In the spring, he had helped his father 
prepare the ground and plant the seed. This staunch 
old man knew what was required, and he did it carefully. 
He knew his fields, his climate and his seeds. He treated 
them intelligently, and believed they would keep faith 
with him. Now all the earth was burdened with the 
harvest. 

“That is the way a lover should go to his wooing,” 
thoughl Adams. “It is, in fact, the way a man should 
live.” 

All his health returned, and with the coursing of his 
blood came the desires, the irresistible desires, natural to 
a man. The city became a shadowy background, throw- 
ing into bright relief the woman he loved. She was for 
him the living present, and a symbol of the future. The 
old world through her was young again. 

“The greatest service I can render,” he said, “is to live 
a kindly life. I will take what part I may in the world’s 
affairs, avoiding injustice, judging no one, seeking to do 
myself, without regard to custom, what I think a man 
should do.” 

Soon after this he returned to New York. He went 
first to see Lou. It was on the day of Dick’s return, and 
he met her coming from Dora, not far from the corner 
on Fifth avenue. 

“Ed!” she exclaimed. 

“Well, Lou, I am back again. I went to the house 
and they told me you were out, so I waited here.” 

“How could you go there?” 


310 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Why not? I couldn’t wait to see you.” He looked 
down upon her. “I want to know if you will marry me. 
If so, your mother would have to know, and if not, there 
would be no harm in it for you.” 

Lou stamped her foot. 

“How cold-blooded !” she said, ready to cry in her vex- 
ation. 

“Cold-blooded!” he echoed, flashing a look into her 
eyes that made her start and tremble. “You are mis- 
taken.” 

“I see,” she answered meekly. 

“Will you marry me?” 

“Yes.” 

She was disturbed by his glance still bent upon her, 
but she was strangely pleased. 

“All right,” he said, with a ring of joy in his voice. 
“I was sure you would.” A moment later he spoke with 
quiet seriousness. 

“I will have to make some money, Lou, for I have none. 
It may be six months, or, perhaps, longer, before I can 
get a home for us. I have seen Stevenson and he seems 
glad to have me back. He said he would have a good 

case for me in a day or so. I shall see Vandemere ” 

his lips grew rigid as he added slowly, “and Judge Pres- 
ton.” 

“Ed,” said Lou, “I would not see him.” 

“You are right, I won’t. I don’t respect him. He is 
a tyrant and I will not deal with him.” 

They had been walking up University Place, and now 
coming to Madison Square, found seats on a bench. 
Lou was conscious of his gaze, but could not meet it 


A SINGULAR WOOING 


311 


frankly. That very day she had been longing for his 
return. He was there, but his coming had been an in- 
terruption, rather than a fulfillment of her dreams. 

Ed was not conscious of her mood. Her presence 
warmed him like the sunshine, but her submission, and 
the rather grave face of his own future made him 
thoughtful. He wondered if he was leading this girl by 
his side to a happy destiny — one suited to her nature. 
He remembered the conversations with his mother, and 
the questions that troubled him then absorbed him now. 
Out of the maze of these reflections he spoke. 

“Lou,” he asked, “do you think you will be glad to be 
a mother?” 

This question struck the last note of discord for Lou. 
She remained silent for a moment, and then getting to 
her feet, turned to walk away. 

“Come,” he said, holding out his hand to her, “don’t 
be angry.” 

She hesitated. 

“Come,” he repeated gently, going to her. 

She saw that he was smiling, but there was something 
so grave and tender in his eyes that she yielded to him. 

“I love you, Lou,” he said, “and I want you to marry 
me, but I want that to bring you happiness.” 

She opened her eyes wide as she looked at him. 

“But I thought that love brought happiness ?” 

“Love does, but love is a big word. Few people ex- 
perience it, and fewer yet are married for it. I think 
you will be happy in marrying me if you believe in me, 
and are glad to be a mother. I think you will be un- 
happy otherwise.” 


312 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Lou was looking fixedly at the ground before her. 
She felt uncomfortable and very resentful. The atmos- 
phere that surrounded Dora and Richard was still fresh 
in her memory. 

The lines cf the Rubaiyat were still sounding in her 
heart. Why was she deprived of the romance of a lover ? 
She f rowned at his prosy wooing. 

Finally she said in a low voice : 

“I am tired and confused. I must go home.” 

“Shall I talk with your mother now?” 

“No — no, not to-day. I think I would rather not 
tell her.” 

He stood on the comer and watched her until she 
turned at the gate, waved her hand ty him and went in. 

A moment later he smiled whimsically at his own be- 
haviour, realising that as a lover, his conduct had been 
ridiculous, for it was much too sane. He knew that his 
nature was passionate. Was he learning to control it 
before the mission of its eager blindness was fulfilled? 
Romantic fancies beset him when he thought of Lou. A 
tender glance could make him tremble. Even as they 
talked together on the bench, he had watched the play of 
colour in her cheek, had felt the temptation of her lips. 
His hands ached for the possession of hers. He might 
woo her in this spirit, be considerate of her youth, her 
surroundings, her moods, her whims, allure her fancy, 
and she would go with him, even to the altar, as one walks 
through pleasant gardens in her sleep. The question he 
had asked had not seemed abrupt to him. It was 
prompted by profound tenderness, a conception of ma- 
ternity that made passion holy and symbolised the poetry 


A SINGULAR WOOING • *313 

of love. It had seemed to him a proper theme for 
lovers. 

It had been abrupt to Lou because it was the theme 
she had been taught most carefully to ignore. He asked 
himself if he had really offended against innocence and 
a young girl’s natural instinct, or if Lou’s attitude now 
was not a false one, the unconscious fruit of those early 
rebuffs when, as a child, she asked questions and was 
made ashamed. It seemed to him that there was a real 
danger in this attitude for one who, in six months, might 
become a wife. He lifted his head and looked about him 
as if seeing the city for the first time. 

“What kind of a world is this?” he asked, “wherein a 
man, if he seeks to pass through it openly, is thought a 
fool?” 

The people on the busses rolling into the Square, in 
private carriages and public cabs, moving constantly up 
and down the avenue, and those he almost brushed 
against upon the walk, composed a pleasant spectacle. 
They were well dressed, well fed, and seemed to be con- 
tented with the world. Most of the faces he noticed were 
smiling, alert, serene. 

“Am I the victim of a pipe-dream?” he asked himself. 
“This seems a friendly world.” 

His eyes brightened, and his thoughts turned swiftly 
to a certain table in his favourite cafe, his corner in the 
library of the club, the good company he knew he could 
still find in his former haunts. It was for him to say 
how soon he became a member of a prosperous firm. 

“I can make a small fortune in five years,” he thought, 
“and a big one in fifteen more.” He wanted to be rid 


314 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


of his late impressions, these serious moods. He wanted 
Lou, merry and contented by his side, a comfortable 
home and a pleasant social place in a pleasant world. 
He could secure all this if he would but push his way, 
but there was something terrifying in the cunning, cold- 
blooded competition this thought recalled. To succeed 
himself, must he outwit and outrun the panting multi- 
tude? Must he fight for a place at the rich man’s table, 
ignoring the Lazarus still beneath it, reaching for the 
crumbs? And so life allured and puzzled him. 

As he was walking back and forth, he felt a hand upon 
his shoulder and heard a pleasant voice saying, “Are you 
not Mr. Adams ?” 

“Yes,” he answered, turning to look. He saw a man 
between fifty and sixty, slightly gray. It was an alert 
and friendly countenance, delicate in its features, en- 
nobled and strengthened by the deep-set, dark-blue eyes, 
that were at once penetrating and friendly. 

“I am Andrew Wheeler,” he said. “Do you know 
me?” 

“I have heard of you.” 

“I know you,” continued Mr. Wheeler, “through your 
defense of Karl Fischer. I happened to drop into the 
court that morning, and I heard you speak.” 

Adams frowned. The eyes of the man watching him 
softened sympathetically. 

“Just now, I recognised you from my window. Will 
you come inside?” 

Adams followed him, and entered a long hallway, 
opening through archways into spacious, luxurious 
rooms. Mr. Wheeler led him to the library, and to the 


A SINGULAR WOOING 


315 


huge round table in the centre, littered with books. He 
drew a chair close to his own, with something so intimate 
in his gesture that the whole room became at once a 
friendly place. 

It was not long since Adams would have lounged com- 
fortably in this padded chair, thinking only of the fame, 
the wealth, the luxurious surroundings of his host, and 
how he might make use of him in the effort to acquire like 
fame for himself. As it was, he remembered Karl, the 
Square, the swarming, ignorant wretched life outside, 
and the contrast perplexed him. 

“I have not forgotten your speech.” 

The friendly voice made him uncomfortable. He 
looked up and encountered a keen scrutiny. 

“I dropped into the court to see Judge Preston that 
day, and remained to hear you. Of course, the result 
of your effort was to be expected.” He smiled, and 
made a deprecating gesture. 

“To be expected? I suppose so.” 

“There is nothing gained by resenting the facts,” said 
Mr. Wheeler genially. “Of course, you could have ex- 
pected nothing else. When such a speech as yours no 
longer offends the bench, the conservatism of the country, 
it will have no significance. By that time there will be 
nothing to prompt it.” 

Adams was surprised. 

“I am glad you did not share the sentiments of the 
judge.” 

“So am I.” 

“It is hard for me to speak of that day.” 

“I know. But still, a man must have self-control, or 


316 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


what use is he?” The keen eyes glowed softly. “So- 
ciety is chaotic, but it is becoming less so. Don’t add to 
the confusion.” 

“Yes,” said Adams, smiling, “I have about reached 
that point.” 

“Good. I thought you would.” 

“But how is a man to struggle for wealth and comfort 
for himself, jostling other people from his path?” 

“Is the jostling necessary?” 

“Have you not found it so?” 

Mr. Wheeler laughed. 

“I made inquiries about you some time ago, and found 
you had just left Stevenson, Logan & Barr. They 
seemed to regret it.” 

“I am with them again.” 

The faces of these men were interesting as they 
watched each other, talking quietly. In spite of the 
delicate features of Wheeler, and those of Adams, large 
clear-cut and rugged, there was an elusive likeness, which 
the contrasting features could not hide. In each, the 
element of strength, of sympathy, of humour and of 
pathos, was apparent. One was old, the other young, 
but in the development of serious natures, if they be 
strong and sympathetic, there is a sombreness of youth 
that merges into the kindly gravity of age. 

“I want to see more of you,” said Mr. Wheeler. “I 
shall be glad to meet you hereafter in a business way, but 
it has occurred to me that you might be interested in 
certain undertakings aside from business, that I am en- 
gaged in. What do you think of our charity organiza- 
tions ?” 


A SINGULAR WOOING 


317 


This question squarely put pricked Adams into life. 

“I think,” he said, “that the slums are gradually re- 
forming them.” 

“You are right. Some of us have awakened to that 
fact, and we are attempting to separate the benevolence 
of the city from its self-righteousness. As we are be- 
ginning to learn something, we are growing old.” He 
studied the face of Adams for a moment, and then said 
quietly, “I wish that every one could have as good a home 
as my own. Do you know how I can bring that about?” 

“No.” 

“Nor do I, but I do know of one step toward it. We 
are formulating a law requiring sufficient light and air 
for every apartment house and tenement of the city. 
That sounds like a primitive requirement, but to secure 
even this we must overcome the builders and owners, the 
material men — formidable interests. It will require a 
great effort to put such a measure through. Stevenson 
is interested in this matter, and he agrees with me that 
you’d be the man to urge it before the committee and 
watch it in the legislature afterward if it is reported 
out.” 

Adams had grown suddenly alert, his eyes glowed as 
the significance of this proposition became clear to him. 
It seemed to dispel the shadows that had beset his way. 
For two hours, these men looked over reports and plans, 
and discussed the details of an enterprise destined to be- 
come a landmark in the progress of the world. 

“Mr. Wheeler,” said Adams, warmly, as he rose to 
go, “it will be a great thing for me to be associated with 
a man like you,” 


318 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


He unconsciously stood more erect as he walked down 
the steps to the street. 

“Such men,” he thought, “are the soul of the city, and 
this is the secret of its inspiration.” 

In a measure this was true. Mr. Wheeler was, at 
least, a practical philosopher, that is, he saw the trend of 
the world, believed it to be good, and perceiving the next 
step in its progress, devoted himself to that with great 
directness. Perhaps if there were more like him, even 
among those who rank themselves in his class, Blackwell’s 
Island would not now be needed, and there would not be 
such a broad foundation for the tragedies of this book. 

When Adams left the luxurious rooms in which he had 
renewed his hope, he crossed the Square, teeming with its 
eager life, for once unnoticed, entered the Judson, nod- 
ded genially to the clerk, and received his mail. There 
was an official communication from Washington. Karl 
Fischer’s pardon had been refused. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A MADONNA OF THE STREETS. 

K ATRINA was buried in a roadside cemetery near 
the Howard estate. On the evening of Thek- 
la’s return to the lodge, Molly went up to the 
house and told Mrs. Howard what had happened. 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Howard, “she must be looked 
after. If you will be so good, Molly, as to take charge 
of the matter, I will pay for everything. Have Mike 
drive into town for an undertaker this evening — he had 
better bring a doctor, for form’s sake. Have him speak 
to our curate, too. He can come in the morning or send 
some one.” 

“Could you give her daughter something to do?” 
“How old is she?” 

“Almost sixteen, but she is big and strong for her age. 
She could wear me out easily.” 

“Does she seem like a good girl, Molly ?” 

“I have only seen her twice, Mrs. Howard, but I like 
her as much as any one I know. She is so clean and 
wholesome. She has such a happy way with her, en- 
tirely.” 

“I wonder if she could do the laundry work well?” 

“I am sure she could.” 


319 


320 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Well, I will try her, if you wish me to.” 

The next morning a hearse drove through the gate 
and stopped before the little lodge house. The under- 
taker and Mike brought the plain black coffin, and lifted 
it inside. The young curate in a clerical robe and 
broad-brimmed hat, carrying a prayer-book, came out 
with Molly and Thekla. It was only a short distance to 
the cemetery, and the little company followed the hearse 
on foot; Molly and Thekla walked hand in hand, their 
heads bare. They turned through a gateway, between 
old stone piers, crumbling and green with age, followed 
a grass-grown road over a gentle rise and stopped by an 
open grave. The coffin was pulled from the hearse and 
lowered by straps. The curate read the service. His 
youthful, mellow voice sounded peculiarly sweet in the 
open air. From far and near came the piping of birds. 
A light wind stirred in the rank grass, in the bushes, and 
loudly rustled the leaves of a nearby poplar. A spar- 
row alighted on the fresh earth, heaped at the edge of 
the grave, picked up a worm and flew away. A waggon 
lumbering slowly along the road outside reminded Thekla 
of the teamster who had helped her. She thought of her 
mother sleeping on her lap. She remembered how Karl 
had held her head to his breast, stroking and. kissing it. 
The little yellow house on Van Buren street came swiftly 
before her. She saw her father at his vines, and her 
mother in the doorway. She felt as she had when, a 
hungry baby, the breast was denied her. She wanted 
her mother now. As the first shovelful of dirt fell upon 
the coffin she put her arm about Molly’s shoulder and 
turned away. 


A MADONNA OF THE STREETS 321 


This was the end of Thekla’s girlhood. For months 
she was happy. She experienced several days of sick- 
ness, but she recovered quickly from each attack, and not 
a thought of what they portended came to her. It was 
impossible for her to mourn in pleasant surroundings. 
Sorrow, to affect her, must be up and doing. Any fear 
she could feel must be close at hand, and threatening. 
She did not brood. She would walk in the evening to 
her mother’s grave, covering it with the wild flowers she 
had picked, and return singing. She sang in the laun- 
dry, until the cook, who was a crabbed creature, com- 
plained of her noise. She made such good f riends of the 
stable boys that one of the housemaids, who had been 
angling in these waters more covertly, began to whisper 
scandals against her. She surprised the old gardener 
with her knowledge of shrubs and plants, and he began 
to miss her if she failed to join him when her own work 
was done. She took long walks with Molly. She drove 
with Mike when he went on errands to the town. Her 
only concern for the future was one for her father. She 
began to think of the time when he would be free. She 
wished she could have a lodge to mind like Molly’s, and 
have him with her, where he could look out upon a world 
of green and have a little garden of his own to care for. 

“I wish it could be somewhere near here,” she said to 
Molly. “We would like to live close to her.” 

“Perhaps Mrs. Howard could get you one. There 
are so many places all around. I will speak to her some 
time.” 

It was this affectionate hope, the friendly joking with 
the stable boys, the kindly old gardener, the amiable 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


companionship of Mike and Molly, that made her happy. 
With this hope for her father, with one person to love 
near her, she would have been equally content. How 
little she required ! 

One evening as she was returning from the cemetery 
she felt a sharp pain in her side. It took her breath, 
and she was forced to sit for a few moments by the road. 
She had suffered from such pains recently, but this was 
unusually severe. It had not left her altogether when 
she reached the lodge house. 

“I feel so queer,” she said to Molly, a note of fright 
in her voice. 

“Are you sick, Thekla? You look a little pale.” 

“It hurts me. It comes so suddenly, and now it don’t 
go away.” She passed her hand about her body, look- 
ing questioningly into Molly’s eyes. “What do you 
suppose it is?” 

“Perhaps you ought to speak to the housekeeper and 
have the doctor give you something. I don’t believe it is 
anything much. You usually look so well.” 

The pain passed, and Thekla did not speak of it 
again. When it returned a few days later she did not 
mention it. She began to experience a curious con- 
sciousness of her body. She felt the stirring of the life 
within her, but she did not know what it was. She re- 
mained silent from instinct, rather than from knowledge 
and fear. She felt strange, new emotions, and became 
lost in unaccustomed reveries, too vague for word or 
thought. She had entered into the fulfilment of her des- 
tiny, and it was all a mystery to her. She had not been 
warned in a vision. The god Creation, so heedless of 


A MADONNA OP THE STREETS 323 

man’s changing creeds, had been her spouse, and he had 
visited her as he drops an acorn in a field. 

It was only a few days before her condition became 
apparent to those around her that she had an idea of the 
truth. Her perceptions were prompted by Molly, who 
began at this time to experience what she had passed 
through. Confiding the cause of her trouble to Thekla, 
she said ruefully : 

“I’m just furious over it. We did not want any 
children yet.” 

When Thekla knew she was beset with fears. What 
would happen to her now? She had heard hard things 
said about girls in such a plight. 

The servants began to talk freely of her appearance, 
and even Mike and Molly became suspicious of her. She 
felt the change, and it made her wretched and anxious. 
She remained more and more by herself, wondering what 
she should do. The jealous housemaid, becoming con- 
vinced, went to the housekeeper and reported the matter. 

“Either she must go,” she said pertly, “or the rest of 
us will. We won’t stay with such a girl.” 

The housekeeper took occasion to notice Thekla, and 
then she sent for her. This woman, in the presence of 
her social superiors, was exceedingly suave and genteel, 
but she seldom picked her language when speaking to a 
servant. 

“You’re a fine one,” she said, contemptuously, “to 
come to a place like this in such a condition. Did you 
think it was a lying-in hospital?” 

Thekla aroused by her combative voice and angry 
glance, looked at her squarely, her cheeks flushed, her 


324 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


eyes snapping. If the housekeeper had obeyed her 
impulse and slapped her, there would have been a 
fight. 

“You had better get your things ready ; I shall recom- 
mend your immediate dismissal.” 

Mrs. Howard allowed no domestic to be employed or 
sent away until she was consulted. She was not a woman 
to conceive the ideal, she would not open new paths 
through the wilderness, but she readily conformed to all 
that has been commonly accepted as worthy. She held 
herself responsible in a far-off, lordly way for the well- 
being of her servants. She would not permit hardships 
or injustice if she could help it. She was as humane as 
the conventions approved. She was a busy woman, how- 
ever, holding so high a place in our society of wealth, 
and she was willing at most times to take the word of her 
housekeeper. 

She was distressed to hear that her bright-eyed, sweet- 
voiced laundry girl was in such a condition. She was 
annoyed also, for she did not like to deal with such mat- 
ters, nor to lose good help. 

“I must speak with her myself,” she said. “Send her 
to me, Mrs. Wells.” She could hardly spare the time, 
for she was getting ready to receive a coaching party 
from New York, and it was almost time for them to ar- 
rive. When Thekla entered the dressing-room, she dis- 
missed her maid, and said in a gentle, well-modulated 
voice : 

“My dear, I am greatly distressed. I thought you 
were such a good child — I wanted to keep you.” 

All the anger left Thekla at once. Tears rushed to 


A MADONNA OF THE STREETS 325 

her eyes. She stood with drooping head, silent and sor- 
rowful. 

“Why did you do such a thing? Don’t you know that 
it is wicked and shameful? Here you are, just at the 
beginning of life, a strong, happy-hearted, attractive 
girl. If you had preserved yourself, if you had only 
been as good as you are lovely ” she stopped abrupt- 

ly, for her own words had increased her interest and com- 
passion. She perceived in a vague way something of 
Thekla’s true nature. 

“Is your lover one of the men on this place?” she 
asked. 

Startled by the direct question, Thekla looked up and 
meeting her friendly glance, shook her head. 

“Will you tell me who he is? If I can find him, he 
shall marry you.” 

Thekla’s cheeks were feverish. She wiped her eyes 
with her sleeve and looked down. 

“Won’t you tell me?” 

“I— I don’t know.” 

Mrs. Howard believed she was lying. 

“It is strange,” she thought, “how these girls will suf- 
fer and endure, refusing to betray the lovers who desert 
them.” 

She looked at her watch, and said quietly, her mind 
already beset with other duties. 

“I am sorry. You came from New York, I think? 
Well, my child, you had better go back there, and see if 
he won’t marry you. If he don’t, you go to the Home 
for Friendless Girls — do you know where it is ?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


£26 

“You go there. They will look after you.” 

Half an hour later Thekla left the house with her 
bundle. She crossed the lawn and passed through the 
woods to the road, climbing over the fence, for she wished 
to avoid Molly. She, too, was lost to her since the old, 
thoughtless, affectionate relations were impossible. 

She turned, without thinking, toward Sing Sing. 
Her father was all the past had left her; the future 
offered her only her unborn child. The prison had be- 
come the centre of her world. 

The story of the months that followed would be but a 
record of her desolate wanderings from place to place. 
Respectable households would not admit her. She spent 
the winter in Sing Sing, scrubbing the floors of places 
as questionable as herself in the eyes of good people. 
She could do a day’s work for a washerwoman in return 
for food and a night’s lodging. If she could find no 
work, she would beg for something to eat and sleep in a 
shed. She would have died of privation and exposure 
had she not been so strong. Her surplus health and 
vitality kept her and her child alive. The forty-five 
dollars, sewed under the hem of her mother’s skirt, had 
been buried with her. Thekla had forgotten it. 

Her child was born in the shanty of a washerwoman 
for whom she had worked. Mrs. Flaherty, a widow with 
two young children, shared Thekla’s dread of institu- 
tions, and when the time came gave her a shelter. 
Thekla was about again in a few days, well able to work. 
She found an accumulation of clothes, and cheerfully 
washed and ironed them, looking after the Flaherty boys 
and her own baby until Mrs. Flaherty came to, after 


A MADONNA OF THE STREETS 327 

celebrating the birth in a benevolent desire to “give the 
brat a dacent welcome.” 

For three months Thekla remained here, thinking of 
nothing but her baby, glad of any shelter for its tender 
form. When Katie was well and noisy in a happy way, 
Thekla laughed and sang as she worked and watched 
over her. She was all anxiety when her baby wailed. 
Sitting on the door-sill, with Katie at her breast, one 
evening, she found herself perplexed by thoughts alto- 
gether new to her. This little one of hers needed clothes 
and a more comfortable home than this. Now that she 
was here to do the work, Mrs. Flaherty had more leisure 
for rumination or sociability. It did not matter which 
impulse she pursued, for both led to a debauch, and she 
was sometimes ugly while sobering up. 

Concern for the future, was new to Thekla. There 
had been no anxiety, but only hope, in her anticipations 
for her father’s freedom and content. That was far 
off, and she had not thought of him as helpless. Long- 
ings for her child began to affect her thoughts of him. 
Perhaps he, too, would need her, as her mother had begun 
to do. 

Every two months, as the rules allowed, she visited her 
father, finding him more and more broken in mind and 
body. The death of Katrina was an overwhelming sor- 
row to him. He sat bowed over his work, the weaving 
of rope mats, utterly crushed by his own perplexing fate 
and the sorrows that had burdened his Katrina in her 
old age. He knew nothing of Thekla’s trouble, for she 
had not seen him until after the child was born, and she 
did not tell him. She was not afraid to do this on her 


328 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


own account, but on his. He would not scorn nor re- 
proach her, but his anxiety would be increased. Her 
visits to him convinced her, at last, that he must rely on 
her when he was free. 

Responsibility, vaguely conceived, but persistently 
felt, troubled her constantly. She must find something 
to do. She remained, however, in this shanty until fall, 
because she could find no place where she could be with 
her baby. She began now to think of returning to New 
York. She believed that Emeline would help her if she 
knew, but she hesitated to ask her. She might get a 
place in a store or a factory, leaving her child for the 
day, somewhere. Such things were possible in New 
York. She watched the world grow sere with anxious 
forebodings. She could not wait here through another 
winter. She must go and find Emeline. 

The last day of October she crossed King’s Bridge. It 
had taken her a week to come, for she had stopped at 
roadhouses and saloons, when she could get anything 
to do, and a place to sleep. She had earned two dollars, 
beside her food and lodging. It was all she had. 

It was afternoon, but she did not wait to eat. She 
boarded a car and, transferring to the Third avenue line, 
got off at Thirtieth street. She reached the establish- 
ment where Emeline had worked, and entered it with an 
anxious heart. She could not believe her sister would 
not be glad to see her, and yet she could not altogether 
forget. It might anger her to have her come in this 
way. She turned around, thinking she would go outside 
and wait. 

“What do you want?” 


A MADONNA OF THE STREETS 329 


“Is — is Emeline Fischer here?” 

“Miss Fischer? No, she left us some months ago.” 

“Has she gone? Where is she?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Thekla scarcely heeded the manner of the woman 
speaking to her. She saw that the door was opened for 
her and she went blindly out. She did not know what to 
do. It would be so hard for her to get a place and keep 
her baby. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


IN PLACE OF CHAPERONES . 

T HE coaching party Mrs. Howard was expecting 
swept through the gate gallantly. The seats 
were filled by a number of young people invited 
for the week. Mrs. Vandemere was the chaperone and 
among the guests were Dora, Richard and Amy. On 
occasions such as this, Amy was at her best. She was 
even noisy. She knew that it was quite proper to be a 
little hoydenish on an outing and she became so, keeping 
within bounds. As they rolled up the driveway she 
reached for the bugle and blew it. She was, when others 
might see her, an enthusiastic outdoor girl. At home 
she relapsed into the Amy of those other days when she 
had not learned the value of such things. 

When they dismounted, young Archie Wagner helped 
her down. He was now the thing of promise, the son 
of a wealthy wholesale druggist and of a good Boston 
family. It had, at least, for three generations been well 
spoken of. 

Mrs. Howard seated Richard on her right at lunch, 
served soon after their arrival, under the trees, and when 
she spoke to him there was always a special directness 
330 


IN PLACE OF CHAPERONES 


331 


in her eyes, a softening of her voice to a more exclusive 
note. Mrs. Howard liked boys and such manly, hand- 
some ones very much. 

Opposite Richard at the table sat Miss Geraldine 
Blake Wilson, sole heiress of the Blake estate, valued at 
four million. Mrs. Howard had a purpose in bringing 
her to this house party, and she and Richard were so 
placed that whenever they looked straight before them, 
they must see each other. After one of these inevitable 
glances Mrs. Howard bent toward Richard and mur- 
mured : 

“There is a live girl, Dick.” 

“Too much like my Cousin Amy,” he replied with a 
touch of boyish scorn. 

“How like a man ! You never discriminate. Gerald- 
ine is the real thing your cousin imitates.” 

It was not long before Richard looked at her again. 
When Mrs. Howard found an opportunity for another 
aside to him she said : 

“And there is another difference. She does not re- 
ceive her dower from your father. She will have five or 
six millions.” 

“Is my father backing Amy?” 

“Handsomely.” 

“Good for the governor,” said Richard. “I hope he 
will do as much for Lou.” 

“Lou would not permit that.” 

She looked at Dora, sighed, and was silent for a mo- 
ment. Then she commented with a significantly melan- 
choly air: “How poorly you read women. You need 
some one to manage for you.” 


332 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

Dick blushed with resentment. He did not like to be 
belittled. 

“You want me to marry Miss Wilson ?” 

“Why not?” 

“Because she is rich?” 

“And because of her colour. The sentimental, cooing 
girl is out of date, Dick. Take my word for it.” 

Dick resented this interference, but more on his own 
account than on Dora’s. He was young and vain, ac- 
customed to being made much of, and he shrank from 
ridicule as from the plague. Mrs. Howard wisely left 
him to his meditations, and smiling upon Dora, said : 

“Have you learned to play tennis yet ?” 

“No, but I mean to. Dick will teach me.” 

“Dora, Dora,” exclaimed Mrs. Howard playfully. 
“You must not expect to monopolise Dick here.” 

“No, Dora,” said Geraldine, smiling saucily at the 
youth upon her left. “You have left me so far to handle 
this stupid boy alone. You must do your share and let 
me find relief in Dick. Harry will teach you. He can’t 
say three words together, but he can play tennis like a 
Shakespeare.” 

Everyone laughed, and Dick, who thought this very 
witty, was further pleased to see that Geraldine laughed 
frankly with the rest and looked only at him. 

Dora seemed, in truth, not to belong to this company. 
She was not a type of the world Dick lived in, the modern 
world. Her even colouring, her clear eyes, her dainty 
body, bird-like, sometimes childish in activity, denoted 
health and a happy spirit, but she did seem frail and 
old-fashioned by the side of Geraldine. In the midst of 


IN PLACE OF CHAPERONES 333 

these impressions he dropped his eyes, for he felt the 
glance of Mrs. Howard and it confused him. 

After luncheon, Mrs. Vandemere gave her wards their 
liberty. 

“I will watch your chaperon,” said Mrs. Howard. 
“You will see no more of her to-day.” 

Conversation was very easy between these two women, 
and it was, therefore, very trite. Thinking is a slow 
process, and it requires long intervals of silence. But 
for Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Vandemere current opinion 
was sufficient, and this found a ready expression in cur- 
rent phrases, absorbed like the air they breathed. 

“How nice that chaperones are no longer needed,” said 
Mrs. Howard when they were left alone. 

“Yes, the world is improving.” 

“I sometimes wonder if it really is. Of course, the 
better classes are advancing, but I am afraid the greater 
liberty of the day is dangerous for the people. The 
question of servants is getting more and more impossi- 
ble? And such awful looseness ! I have lost three girls 
this past year because of it.” 

Mrs. Vandemere shook her head and lisped a sigh. 

“I dismissed one this morning. She was not over 
sixteen — think of it !” 

Mrs. Vandemere made two sounds with her tongue in 
quick succession and looked interested. 

“I tried to talk with her, but I could see that I made 
no real impression. I told her of the Home for Friend- 
less Girls, but I doubt if she goes there. I sometimes 
wonder, Susan, if all our benevolent work really does any 
good. These people don’t seem to want to be helped.” 


334 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“What do you think of Richard?” 

“Splendid. I suppose he will really marry Dora.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“Do you think you ought to let William have his 
way?” 

“Unless Richard should love elsewhere, there is no help 
for it. And, you know, we all love Dora dearly.” 

“She is a sweet, lovely girl,” said Mrs. Howard warm- 
ly. “But the world is moving, Susan. The demands 
on a society woman are so different now. Dora could 
not meet them. She and Dick would just drop behind. 
Too bad. He should become a leader.” 

Youthful voices came faintly from the tennis court 
and sounded very pleasant, as distant voices do among 
the trees. 

“Geraldine is such a fine creature,” sighed Mrs. How- 
ard. 

“Yes, she seems to be,” said Mrs. Vandemere, com- 
placently. 

All these ladies said of her was true. Geraldine was a 
really fine creature. She was neither very selfish nor 
very generous, not too thoughtful nor too frivolous. 
Fortune had been good to her, and she did not question it 
closely. She practically lived in the open air, was ath- 
letic and was not particularly interested in men. She 
liked those who could give her brisk sport, and in spite 
of her speech at luncheon, she really preferred young 
Harry Goodrich to Richard, because he was a splendid 
athlete. She was twenty, and had, during the past two 
years, been besieged by numerous lovers. She said 
frankly that men tired her extremely when they became 


IN PLACE OF CHAPERONES 


335 


sentimental, but what could you do ? Even Harry would 
sometimes become so, in the evening. 

She had seen little of Richard during their college 
years, but she had always known him and liked him. 
She realised now that he was becoming a handsome fel- 
low, and as he drove the balls to her, close to the net, that 
afternoon, unsparingly, she grew quite fond of him. 

She had no intention of remaining single. She re- 
alised that she should be married within the next three 
years and that it was time to be meeting him. She did 
not like to think she might not find any one who pleased 
her better than Harry. She said as much to Amy while 
standing in the shade, fanning herself with her racquet 
after a game. 

“I would like to feel a little thrill,” she added. The 
next game was a very close one, but Dick beat her, and as 
she looked at his face, red with the exercise and heat, she 
wondered how he would do. He looked so confident and 
splendid. 

Dick was enjoying the day immensely. On another 
court nearby was Dora with Harry, who was conscien- 
tiously and soberly teaching her to play. 

In the evening, when Dora was alone with Dick, she 
said eagerly: 

“Will you play some with me to-morrow? I got so 
I could hit the ball.” 

How like a child she now seemed to him. He began 
to Feel toward her again as he had in the years before 
his home-coming. They were walking under the trees 
of the lawn, the light from the house glowing faintly 
around them. At a distance he could see Geraldine and 


336 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Harry strolling in friendly fashion, and a pang of envy 
surprised his heart. He watched them for a moment, 
unconsciously moving in their direction. Dora, conscious 
of some change in him, looked anxiously into his face. 

“Dick,” she asked anxiously, “what is it?” 

He stopped abruptly. “I was thinking of something 
unpleasant,” he said. They walked on out of the faint 
light and when the shadows concealed them he drew her 
close to him, saying, “You love me, Dora.” He spoke 
tenderly, but it was not a question, and there was some- 
thing in his voice that made her tremble. She raised 
her hands to his shoulders and clung to him without a 
word. She was afraid without knowing the reason. 
This mood soon passed, however, for Richard’s thoughts, 
lured by her great affection, returned to her wholly, and 
she was instantly at peace again. 

On the verandah sat Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Vande- 
mere, with Mr. Howard, who had returned from the city. 
He was a florid-faced little man, a member of the Stock 
Exchange. He had made his fortune originally in the 
mines of Colorado. He was not to the manner born, but 
had married into New York society. That was fifteen 
years ago, but his nature was still alien. 

As the evening passed he looked now and then toward 
the trees and the darkness. “Don’t you think,” he said 
at last, “we had better call them in?” 

“Why?” asked his wife, sweetly. 

“Why? It’s getting late — that’s why.” 

“They will come in when they are sleepy.” 

“It’s all wrong,” he said, growing very red, “to let 
young people wander about in the night like that.” 


IN PLACE OF CHAPERONES 


337 


“You should read the magazines, Tom, and you would 
discover why our American girls are famous. They have 
learned how to take care of themselves.” 

“I know, one thing,” said Tom Howard, stoutly, “they 
are getting to be a queer lot, a damned queer, cold- 
blooded lot.” 

Out under the trees, also, were Amy and Archie 
Wagner. It was a serious matter to Amy, this house 
party. She had known Mr. Wagner now for three 
months. She had seen him often, almost daily of late. 
To be amiable and not too monotonous for so long a 
time with the same person was a terrible strain on her. 
She knew that if the end was not now, it never would be. 
When they were engaged she could, of course, permit 
more liberty, and that would entertain him without so 
much effort on her part. Now she must not only keep 
him aloof, which would always be easy for her, but she 
must tempt him — a thing more difficult. His father 
had been informed of her dower, but, generous though 
it was, as a gift, it was still small for these days, and 
she knew that she must do much for herself. She was, 
therefore, free with him and inviting until, at his first 
advance, she grew distant again. It was quite the ordi- 
nary affair. Amy had become an adept, however, 
through many similar ones, and she believed with reason 
that her goal was near. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


MYTHICAL GUARDIANS . 

D ORA never understood that week at the 
Howards. All she knew was that she very 
nearly lost Dick, and that the last two days 
were desolate. That he was constantly with Geraldine 
did not trouble her. She was one of those rare beings 
who truly love, and are, therefore, not jealous. He no 
longer wished her to be near him, and this appalling 
fact hurt her like a wound. Mrs. Vandemere, believing 
she was sick, tried to have her keep to her bed, but she 
could not lie there. She sat on the porch, listening and 
wondering. The last evening Geraldine suddenly de- 
serted Richard and went for a walk with Harry. When 
they returned she announced her engagement to him. 
Richard, sitting moodily on the steps, got up and walked 
down the driveway alone. Dora heard the announce- 
ment vaguely, but it meant nothing to her. She was fol- 
lowing Richard with a troubled soul. 

During the return drive to New York he sat by her 
side, and when she slipped her hand in his he gripped it 
eagerly. He felt that he really did not regret Geraldine, 
but he was humiliated by her abrupt desertion. She was 
too self-sufficient, too matter-of-fact for him. Even 
338 


MYTHICAL GUARDIANS 339 

while devoting every moment to her he had missed the ro- 
mance of attachment, and he was conscious of this lack. 
He had pursued her with impatience rather than long- 
j ing. Her even balance, coupled with the real allurement 
of her glowing person, had tempted and irritated him. 
It was not so much the desire for her as it was the need 
I of possessing whatever pleased him that spurred him on. 
Now that she had brushed him aside so easily he was 
| angry and ashamed. 

In all this Richard was no exception to* the average 
I youth. He possessed the ordinary virtues of a youth, 
j He followed the standards of the day and was a credit to 
them. He had thought little of Dora while the newer 
interest was at hand, but in the moment of humiliation he 
accepted her abiding worship gratefully. 

Again, at home., he became even more ardent than be- 
fore. He was at that age when he must woo, and of a 
nature to woo passionately and selfishly. 

Dora had no disturbing wish on her own account to 
be alone with him, but she very soon realised that he was 
not satisfied with the knowledge of her affection, with 
her mere presence, or with the tender glances they might 
exchange. It seemed only a wonderful thing to her that 
he should grow restless at times under the restraint of 
another presence, that his need for her caresses, his wish 
to caress her, should become so imperative; but with the 
wonder came the joy of bestowing, and renewed forget- 
fulness of her recent fears. 

After a month’s idleness Richard was sent by his 
father into the oil fields of Pennsylvania to begin his 
practical education in the affairs he must some day 


340 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


direct. He returned for the holidays, and was sent off 
again with a general agent, who, with an army of assist- 
ants, was working out the details of a vast railroad colo- ! 
nization scheme. All this Richard found interest- ; 
ing enough, but it was not so much to his taste as 
those aimless rambles through Switzerland, Spain and 
Italy of the year before. The agent was a man of in- 
domitable energy, one not to be put off nor eluded. It 
was a time of constant bustle, business and fatigue. 
And those wide, monotonous stretches of land were de- 
pressing, seen day after day. New York, with all that 
it contained, became for him more and more magical in 
its charm. He longed for the dear city as a lover for his 
mistress, and, denied relief in any substitute, his affection 
dwelt upon Dora with a melancholy longing. It was, in • 
fact, his first experience with homesickness, for in previ- . 
ous absences he had been at liberty and in the surround- 
ings he would choose. 

His letters to Dora were now real love letters. They 
did not come regularly, it is true, only at those times 
when he was too insufferably dull to be silent. There 
were days when, cast away in some farm-house of the 
prairie or in a treeless village, too new and crude to con- 
tain a woman, he wrote three and four letters for a single 
mail. These letters were inexpressibly precious to Dora. 
Two or three times a week Lou came to see her and hear 
the extracts read. 

It looked to Lou these days as though an unhappy end 
of her relationship with Ed were inevitable. For one 
thing he was very much absorbed in his new-found Mr. 
Wheeler and their mutual projects. He talked of these 


MYTHICAL GUARDIANS 


541 


a great deal. He went to Albany several times during 
the winter in behalf of philanthropic measures, one pro- 
viding for a hospital for consumptives, one to enlarge 
the scope of the State Board of Charities, and one seek- 
ing to improve the condition of the tenements. 

“Some day,” he told her, “you will see a law for this 
city requiring an open court in the centre of every tene- 
ment house, so that every room will have good light and 
air.” 

He spoke of these things as ardently as Richard wrote 
to Dora of his love. Ed sometimes told her that he loved 
her, but he spoke of this gravely. He seemed striving to 
resist whatever passion he might feel. She did not admit 
that she resented his control over himself, but she could 
not help comparing her lot with that of Dora’s. If she 
was loved she wanted the romance of love. Sometimes, 
when his eyes sought hers and his voice grew tender, she 
felt the stirring of sweet emotions, and she longed to ex- 
perience them to the full. But he invariably put them to 
rout, and in their place came an almost terrifying sense 
of their significance. 

“Passion,” he would say to her, “is a noble element in 
the make-up of a man, for by it he may become a father,” 
or, “I do not believe our race was permanently expelled 
from Eden. You and I may return there if we go to 
grow the fruit and not alone to eat it.” 

At first she was only surprised at this singular wooing. 
As she thought about it alone she came to realise that, 
of course, as a wife, she must expect children some time, 
or, at least, be prepared for them. This thought even 
led to reveries in which she anticipated the happiness of a 


34 % 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


mother. But of these reveries she was silent. She began 
to feel that he put this matter before his love, and, singu- 
lar as it may seem, she became jealous of these children! 

“Yes,” she finally confessed to- herself, “I should love 
to have children, but if I told him so now it would seem 
like bribing his love for me.” 

Of* course, Lou and Dora did not speak of these 
things. The subject had never been pleasantly discussed 
before them. Lou would never have thought of it had 
it not been for her peculiar lover. Dora, more domestic 
in her nature, would not have found such thoughts so 
strange, but she was not conscious of them if they came 
to her now. 

In May Richard returned and was given a few months 
of f reedom. In the f all he was to go into the employ of 
one of his father’s railroads, passing through the various 
departments. With his arrival, an event so eagerly an- 
ticipated, Dora’s peace of mind was no longer undis- 
turbed. New York was her rival now. It was not that 
she begrudged him his liberty. It was the unevenness 
of his attitude toward her that bewildered and some- 
times distressed her. He could have come and gone as 
he wished and she would have been happy if she could 
have felt always, only, that he loved her. On those days 
when he spoke abruptly and seemed eager to be off, she 
told herself that she must not mind, for he was a man 
and she must not expect him to be otherwise. When, 
after an interval of indifference, he sought her again, she 
forgot her anxiety in her delight with him. 

They went frequently into the park, going sometimes 
in the evening with Mrs. Vandemere. Now and then Mr. 


MYTHICAL GUARDIANS 343 

Vandemere and the judge would stroll over for a walk 
and talk together. 

As Richard and Dora crossed the street one evening, 
Emeline was near the gate. She turned and watched 
them as they unlocked it and passed through. She 
caught Richard’s eye for a moment and he looked again. 
She knew that he spoke of her to his companion. Rich- 
ard was, in fact, struck by her expression of melancholy 
passion. 

“What a curious face,” he said. 

“I have always thought her beautiful. Lou says she 
is only interesting to her.” 

“I wish I had looked at her closer. She seems to me 
to be both beautiful and interesting.” 

“I wish,” said Dora, after a moment of tender brood- 
ing, “that I looked more like her.” 

“You!” he exclaimed. “Why should you wish that?” 

They were walking a little apart and talking softly. 
The colour of the tender foliage gives to the moonlight 
falling among the trees of a May night a peculiar ra- 
diance. The spring is never silent. Even when the wind 
is still, the grass is stirring. Mysterious whispers issue 
from the bushes, and from such trees as blossom comes 
a ghostly popping of the buds. Moved by the sym- 
pathetic spirit of the enclosure, these children of the 
spring spoke in rhapsodies. 

“Don’t you know,” said Dick, “there is no one else but 
you? All these other people are but incidents. You are 
the one perfect being.” 

“But if I were very beautiful, Dick, I could give you 
more.” 


$44 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


He looked at her wonderingly, for he knew this was 
but the simple, unaffected expression of her wish. He 
began to see dimly how pure and passionate was her 
love, how unquestioning her generosity, how completely 
she was his to do with as he would. It was but dimly that 
he saw, however. If this vision of her soul had been clear 
enough to him it would have remained to save them both. 

Sometimes in the afternoon Richard went unhindered 
to Dora’s room. There was no objection made to this 
custom of former years until one day, the judge return- 
ing early, found them together, and noticed with a shock 
of displeasure their flushed cheeks and the unnatural 
brightness of their eyes. He said nothing to them, but 
that evening he spoke to Mrs. Vandemere. 

“I will leave you,” he said, “to speak to Richard. It 
will not do for him to see her alone in her room.” 

“The idea !” exclaimed Mrs. Vandemere, for she felt 
keenly where her son was concerned. 

“I cannot allow it,” said the judge, with slow determi- 
nation. “They are too old for such things.” 

This was the end of their liberty and the beginning 
of stealth. 

Richard had reached the age when desire first dis- 
turbs youth’s dream of love. It comes swiftly from its 
ambush, and throws even the wisest and kindliest into 
momentary confusion. In selfish natures it meets arbi- 
trary obstacles with cunning. 

This period of life, common to all, is persistently hid. 
Generation after generation, passes through and draws \ 
the curtain close, abandoning through cowardice and 
shame succeeding generations to the unequal conflict. 


mythical guardians 


345 

Richard met this silent opposition with a blind and 
feverish resentment. He became for the time restless 
and tyrannical. 

Dora was the inevitable victim. She looked with 
startled eyes upon her soul and gave it to him. 

A certain dawn found her kneeling by her bed. She 
had spent the night there, troubled and confused, but 
if she prayed she did so unconsciously. 

Shadowy traditions had been her guardian. Vague 
precepts, pathetic phrases of familiar prayers, impulses 
nursed in her religious reveries, passed before her like 
frightened ghosts and were gone. Her love also was 
pure and holy, and she clung to it, at first, in ecstasy, 
and later in mingled bewilderment and despair. 

Richard did not try to see her alone again. A belated 
conscience troubled him. He stood near her in the pres- 
ence of his mother and sometimes kissed her forehead and 
her hair. While this mood lasted Dora was like one 
dreaming in the twilight. The world seemed dim and 
beautiful. So wrapt was she in this half-oblivious state 
she did not notice that, as time passed, a remarkable 
change was apparent in Richard. Her failure to per- 
ceive was due also to his own conduct. The remorse that 
often attends the transferring of passion made him even 
more tender as he found himself drifting from her. 
When she discovered the change the revelation came 
swiftly. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


EMELIN E PRESERVES HERSELF . 

O NE evening, about a week after bis first sight 
of Emeline, Richard, coming from the park, 
found her again by the gate. He could not 
resist a moment’s scrutiny. He was not one to stare 
offensively at a woman, but he had never found it neces- 
sary to resist impulses such as the present. He was one 
of those who know, instinctively, how to look. No 
woman ever really resents a glance of genuine interest j 
and admiration. Emeline certainly did not. She did not j 
smile or turn away. She was not, in any sense, a co- j 
quette. She was essentially tragic in her nature. Her j 
years of brooding and resentment had left their trace. \ 
Ambition and persistent effort had prevented the sullen 
aspect these influences, undisturbed, would have given to 
her countenance. 

The outward person, if it be pliable and not deformed, 
is subject to the moulding of the will. Emeline’ s in- 
domitable soul had secured its way with her. Time and 
healthy maturity had brought her a just proportion of 
flesh, and the soul had fashioned this into an image of 
itself. The skinny, angular child had become a slender, 
well-developed woman. Her body was twenty years old, 
346 


EM E LINE PRESERVES HERSELF 317 


magnetic and sensuous ; the plastic tool of a soul which, 
judged by the number and intensity of its experiences, 
was in its full prime. Her sombre eyes were alive with 
desire. Her passions, however, were mental. Self-in- 
dulgence did not mean with her a gratification of the 
senses. She wished for place and power, and she had 
already found that her body, properly adorned and 
manipulated, was her best weapon of conquest. She, 
therefore, preserved it. 

She had made rapid progress during the year of her 
complete emancipation. Her employer recognised the 
value of her striking appearance, and found that many 
curious French patterns could be shown to greater ad- 
vantage by teaching her to pose in them. She studied 
her part with the keenness of an ambitious actor. Suc- 
cess brought her rapidly into comparative fortune. She 
was always strikingly dressed at no expense to herself, 
and she received twenty-five dollars a week for her ser- 
vices. This enabled her to find a room in a studio building 
on Thirty-third street, between Broadway and Fifth 
avenue, and to furnish it moderately well. Her life now 
brought her into contact with an endless variety of 
people. She could watch those constantly passing in and 
out of the Waldorf from the window of her room. She 
could join in the Fifth avenue parade at the corner of 
the street, and no longer feel herself an outsider there. 
She had felt the glances of many men, and while nothing 
important had ever followed them, she knew that she was 
close enough to the current she coveted to be caught in 
some chance eddy. 

During the winter she had not gone to Gramercy 


348 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Park. This was no longer the principal magnet, but 
when spring arrived she occasionally included it in her 
idle strolls. When she came here the instinct of desire, 
always present, was tinged with something of the old re- , 
sentment and hopelessness, for memory was awakened, 
and the long, dreary path she had travelled lay again 
before her. 

The evening she saw Richard and Dora pass in and 
speak of her, she returned to her room discouraged and 
heartsick. Here was a girl of her own age who had, 
without a wish or an effort, all that was important to 
have. Petted and cared for, an unquestioned position, 
wealth and luxury, a lover, handsome and aristocratic. 
Her present was complete, her future was assured. But 
what of herself? Obliged to pose and struggle for even 
a semblance of things, alone, uncared for, compelled to 1 
watch with unabating vigilance for the faintest gleam 
ahead. She wondered what he had said of her. 

Now when she met him again, when he stood a moment 
to observe her, she returned his gaze solemnly, her dark 
eyes glowing with a desire, almost desperate. Her will 
became suddenly alert and concentrated. Her passion- 
ate, compelling soul arose with a bold, well-formed pur- 
pose, and all her being was instantly at its bidding. 

Richard was curiously affected. Unprepared for the 
encounter, not realising, in fact, that it was one, he was 
puzzled by her. She was no common street girl, and 
yet he was sure that he might speak to her if he wished. 

“Good evening,” he said, with a pleasant, half-apolo- 
getic smile and the quick, unconscious blush that pro- 
claimed his youth. She half-closed her eyes, but did not 


EMELINE PRESERVES HERSELF 349 


look away. Her own cheeks filled with colour, but it was 
the flush of excitement. He took it for surprised em- 
barrassment. It would not do to stop with so crude a 
greeting. 

“It is very pleasant now inside,” he said, with a ges- 
ture toward the park ; “won’t you come in?” 

“Don’t you think that would be a little strange?” Her 
voice was low and exceedingly musical. She spoke slowly, 
almost gravely. There was something pathetic, very 
pleasing and alluring in her smile and glance. 

“Well,” he answered, “aren’t you sometimes tired of 
the ordinary things? Life is usually so humdrum ; won’t 
you come in?” 

She hesitated a moment and passed by him through the 
gate. He closed it quickly, and they walked on with an 
outward ease and quietness along the walk, past the 
fountain and to the eastern end, finding a settee on the 
lawn. Inwardly, they were far from quiet. Emeline 
believed that her opportunity had come and was intensely 
alive to it. He was enough of a man to feel her in- 
fluence keenly, and enough of a boy to yield to it with a 
thoughtless, impetuous ardour. He would not have 
sought an adventure, but the compassionate regret he 
felt concerning Dora was not rooted in his nature deep 
enough to withstand the breath of a strong emotion. He 
was very much alive to the fascination of the mystery 
beside him, and other impressions began to fade. 

He felt instinctively that ordinary conversation was 
useless here. He remained silent for some time, because 
he hardly knew how to form his curiosity into words. 
His emotions were too vague to stir him into expression. 


350 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Such commonplace phrases as occurred to him he did not 
utter. Emeline, her thoughts fixed upon him, and busy 
with the possibilities he brought to her, waited in a quiet 
of suppressed eagerness for him to speak. 

“Do you know,” he said at last, “that you are exceed- 
ingly interesting to me?” She looked full into his eyes 
and answered slowly : 

“I am glad of that — for you are interesting to me.” 

Her manner, her voice, her intense quiet, gave to her 
words an almost mysterious significance. 

“Why?” he asked, in a pleased surprise. She did not 
answer, but continued to meet his gaze unfalteringly. 

“Why am I interesting to you?” he urged. “Won’t 
you tell me?” 

Unable to induce an answer to this, and altogether 
baffled by the glowing eyes that held him, he returned to 
the original mystery. 

“You come here so much,” he said, boldly. “I wonder 
why ?” 

“Because I am locked out.” There was the least note 
of bitterness in her voice. 

“Is that the reason? Why should that distress you? 
There are plenty of other places you can go. Do you 
live near here?” 

“You are thinking now,” she said, watching him criti- 
cally through half-closed eyes, “that I look to be pros- 
perous and well cared for, and that I can choose what I 
will do or where I will go?” 

“Yes, I was thinking that.” 

“I have earned these clothes,” she said, looking away 
from him now, and speaking in a low, melancholy voice. 


EMELINE PRESERVES HERSELF 351 

“I have not one friend in the world. I was a thin, deso- 
late child — disliked by every one. My people were hor- 
ribly poor. I live alone in a little room — that I can just 
afford. I earn twenty-five dollars a week. I am just 
safe from beggary to-day, but I am not sure of to-mor- 
row. Can you tell me why it is?” 

She made a pathetic and singularly fascinating figure 
in the falling twilight. He took her hand gently. It 
trembled for a moment in his and was withdrawn. Her 
eyes grew moist and she murmured sadly: “Even sym- 
pathy is — dangerous for me.” 

“No — no,” he exclaimed, earnestly. “It need not be. 
Won’t you let me be your friend?” 

“How can I?” she asked passionately. “How could 
you be? Why do you ask me that? It has been so hard 
to be good, to make my own way honestly. It is terrible 
to be so utterly alone, but it is the only safe thing for 
me.” 

Sympathy is quick to awaken in most people. The 
strongest passions are those that possess the heart in- 
stantly and unawares. Richard was profoundly moved. 
When Emeline went home that evening he accompanied 
her. 

“You must not come up,” she said, putting her hand 
on his arm as she stood in the doorway. 

“Why? Won’t you let me?” 

“No.” She added, hesitatingly, “not to-night. 

I must think about it. I believe you are different 
from most men — but — I ” She stopped in con- 

fusion. 

“Very well,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “I 


352 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

will be a good friend to you, and you shall have your 
own way with me.” 

“You are good.” 

“Will you go to the theatre with me?” 

She looked at him doubtfully. 

“If I come for you to-morrow evening?” 

“So soon?” 

“Won’t you let me come up for a little while?” 

“Not to-night.” 

“Well, to-morrow evening then. I will come at half- 
past seven.” 

As he walked slowly home his heart and mind were in 
a tumult. “What a being,” he thought. “So passion- 
ate and yet so strong. How pathetic she is in her cour- 
age and desolation. I will show her that I am not like 
other men.” The thought of Dora pierced him like a 
weapon. How bitterly he regretted his momentary 
weakness and yet, in his secret heart, he believed he would 
possess Emeline. He did not see Dora again until the 
second evening. His love for her had passed like a fra- 
grant breath, his passion for Emeline was the tempest. 

He would have spent every evening now with Emeline, 
had she consented. 

“No,” she would say, “I will not see you again for 
two days, I must not permit myself to become too fond 
of you.” The languid glance accompanying such state- 
ments suggested a world of abandonment and delight, if 
she would not withhold her impulses. 

“Why do you doubt me?” he would plead. “Why 
don’t you be happy with me?” 

“I must not. The danger is too great for me. I 


EMELINE PRESERVES HERSELF 353 


have so little beside. You have so much. If I were to 
weary of you, you would not miss me. But you might 
easily become all of heaven and earth to me. I would 
be lost then if you should leave me.” 

When she spoke in this way, he protested with 
boyish ardour that she was more than life to him, and 
that her hesitations and precautions were an unendurable 
torment. 

Her evenings alone, she spent in making little altera- 
tions in the furnishings of her room. She had the walls 
covered with paper of dark blue and amber stripes. 
With the aid of her employer, she secured what she 
wished, arranging to pay in installments. She hung 
curtains of dark blue covered with bronze figures at the 
windows. She covered the lounge with cloth and cush- 
ions of rich colours. A Japanese screen partially con- 
cealed the narrow white bed and white enamelled dressing 
table. She covered the globes of the gas jets and lamps 
with wine-coloured paper shades, elaborately puffed and 
tucked and ornamented- with satin ribbon. Then she 
made for herself two house gowns low in the neck and 
without sleeves, one of white and one of crimson silk. 
When all these arrangements were complete she told 
him that he might come in. He had been sending her 
regularly every afternoon a dozen American beauty 
roses. Five dozen of these were still preserved in pretty 
jars and vases filled with ice water. All the rich colour- 
ing of the room was subdued, deepened and blended into 
soft effects by the dim light passing through the paper 
shades. 

After his first evening with her there he went home in 


354 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


a kind of intoxication. She had played upon his senses 
with all the subtilty and skill she could command. Her 
poses, her glances, compelling, inviting, forbidding, were 
all so evidently the unconscious graces of her body, and 
the irrepressible expression of her own emotions, that 
Richard, inflamed and half-delirious as he was, mar- 
velled at and glorified the nobility of the woman who 
could feel so powerfully, and still preserve herself. 
While calling Heaven to witness his joy in her purity 
and strength, despair was possessing him. This pas- 
sion, if it could not be satisfied, would drive him mad. 

He still believed that he would some day marry Dora. 
His pity for her and the tenderness that attended it was 
now, however, consumed in his passion for Emeline. 
There were days when Dora did not see him. When he 
was with her he was moody and distraught. Amazed at 
first, she sought to discover the trouble. He met her ap- 
pealing glances, her anxious questions with boyish im- 
patience or with a cynical aversion new to his nature. 
He sought more and more to avoid her. Her haunting 
fears returned to her now, intensified. 

One night a sudden sickness overcame her. For days 
she was partially unconscious. When she regained her 
senses she felt the mysterious change that had come 
to her. Appalled by Richard’s estrangement, feeling 
that he no longer loved her, that this was, indeed, the 
end, she lay trembling at the tragic possibility before 
her. 

Richard knew nothing of the sickness, for he was away 
from home. Saturday afternoon he had driven with 
Emeline to Willett’s Point. She had consented to spend 


EMELINE PRESERVES HERSELF 355 


Sunday with him there. It was their first outing of this 
nature, and when the city was left behind them, the 
smooth country road running between meadows and mar- 
ket gardens, seemed to be leading him to that elusive 
paradise forever rising before the unsatiated lover like a 
mirage. They passed through Flushing and over the 
hills to College Point, taking the road that winds from 
here near the Sound to Willett’s Point. 

When the first full view of the water and the low hotel 
among the trees at its margin lay before them, Richard 
laid his hand upon Emeline’s with a pleading pressure. 
If she would only be good to him now! What then? 
Vague dreams of a happy, oblivious existence spent with 
her in this quiet spot passed before him. She did not 
move her hand, but leaning back in the carriage gazed 
pensively at the white sails on the Sound. 

At sunset they were on the steep, grassy slope of the 
fort, a far stretch of water between green shores before 
them. They silently watched the Fall River boats pass 
in stately file up the distant channel and saw the gleam- 
ing water grow a dull purple. They heard the faint 
notes of the bugle and then a gun behind them and one 
in Fort Schuyler, across the water, announced the setting 
of the sun, their thundering voices echoing and re-echo- 
ing from the low hills along the Sound. Richard and 
Emeline listened to the mighty uproar until it passed in 
distant mutterings. In the quiet that followed, they 
heard the chirping of the sparrows on the summit of the 
slope and the voices of insects that awake with the close 
of the day. He looked again at the body stretched 
in tempting indolence beside him. He met her eyes 


356 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

seeking his own, and saw in them again the glowing, 
languorous invitation that had so often lured him to a 
repulse. 

“Emeline,” he said, “why do you tempt me so?” 

“Do I tempt you? I do not mean to. I am just 
happy with you, that is all.” 

“I know you do not mean to. That is why you do. 
I cannot stand it. Won’t you love me and trust me and 
be happy?” 

“I do love you. And I trust you. That is why I am 
here.” 

“Emeline,” he said hesitatingly. “I told them at the 
hotel that you — that you are my wife.” 

“Oh!” she cried, sitting up quickly. “Why did you 
do it? Why did you spoil our beautiful time together? 
I was so happy.” 

“But Emeline,” he protested passionately, “I have not 
spoiled it.” 

“How could you? How could you? I cannot go 
back there now. We must go home.” 

She got up quickly and turned away f rom him, cover- 
ing her face with her hands. 

“Emeline,” he cried, made desperate by the thought of 
returning now. “Don’t go — we must not go. If you 
will stay with me now, we can stop on the way home and 
be married.” 

She turned quickly, and kneeling by his side, looked 
fiercely into his eyes. 

“Do you mean that?” she asked. 

“Yes, you know it.” 

“I believe you,” she said. “But it must be to-night. 


EMELINE PRESERVES HERSELF 35 1 


I have nothing but myself to give you, and I will come 
to you pure.” 

“Very well,” he said. “We will drive to College 
Point.” He was both excited and oppressed. The 
vision of Dora passed before him, but his senses were in 
a tumult, and he was controlled by them. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

REFUGE . 

R ICHARD was allowed to go and come very much 
as he liked, for neither his father nor mother 
believed in keeping too close a watch on the 
movements of a young man. He was, therefore, very 
much surprised to find his father waiting for him when 
he returned, between one and two o’clock, one morning, 
from Emeline’s room. He was in a disconsolate mood, 
for he did not know how to reconcile the present with the 
future. Emeline, although she had been his wife less 
than a week, was beginning to insist on an immediate 
proclamation of their marriage. She would at least 
have it known to his people. She intended to secure all 
that she had sought for in seeking him. His own trou- 
bles were now so imminent and real that he thought little 
of Dora. The first words of his father were, therefore, 
a great shock to him. 

“Dick,” said Mr. Vandemere, turning to look squarely 
at his son as he came into the library, “do you know that 
Dora is very sick?” 

Richard looked at his father with blanching cheeks. 
He realised the truth instantly. 

“No, sir,” he stammered, “I did not.” 

358 


REFUGE 


359 


“You have made your immediate marriage necessary. 
I am sorry for this; most of all, I am grieved at the 
shock to my old friend. He is in a terrible passion 
against us all. I am afraid he will never forgive either 
you or Dora. I wished to warn you, to avoid the judge, 
if possible. You will, of course, marry Dora at once. 
He will not be present.” 

Richard listened to this statement with increasing re- 
| morse and horror. 

“My God !” he cried, dropping into a chair and break- 
ing into a passion of sobs. His father watched him 
coldly, surprised at the outburst. He could see no rea- 
! son for such vehement grief. 

“Come, Dick,” he said quietly, “you should not have 
done it, but it is not so bad as all that.” 

“But I cannot marry her.” 

“What’s that?” 

“I cannot marry her. I — Oh, what a fool I have 
been ! I am married.” 

For a moment his father thought he was raving, or 
that he could not have understood him. 

“Do you mean to say you have married someone 
else?” 

Richard nodded. Mr. Vandemere turned abruptly 
and stood with his back to him, his eyes staring at the 
floor. He was not a man to give vent to his emotions in 
words or useless deeds. He remained silent for several 
minutes, which to Richard were as so many hours. 

“Why don’t you say something?” he said at last. 

“What would you like to hear? My words will make 
you neither more nor less of a scoundrel. Who is she? 


360 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

What have you done with her, and what did you propose 
to do?” 

Richard told him of his meeting with Emeline, his in- 
fatuation and his marriage. 

“Poor Dora,” said Mr. Vandemere, with a momentary 
softening of his firm, gray face. Turning again toward 
Richard, he said shortly : 

“You had better pack your trunks and take your wife 
abroad. It will look better if you return with her in a 
year or so. I think, with her, you are in competent 
hands. I will break the news to the judge, and to your 
mother. Simply bid her good-bye, and tell her I have 
sent you. You may drop into the office in the morning 
for what money you will need.” 

Mr. Vandemere was neither a coward, a self-deceiver 
nor a hypocrite. Certain episodes of his own life came 
before him with fearful vividness and he did not ask his 
son to stand alone in his shame. He held out his hand. 
Richard grasped it, and, avoiding his father’s eyes, hur- 
ried from the room. 

The next day, Judge Preston stood by his daughter’s 
bedside alone long enough to inform her, briefly, of 
Richard’s marriage and departure, then he made way 
for the nurse attending her and caused a doctor to be 
summoned. 

Dora remained in her room for six months, passing 
from one delirious illness to another, pleading pitifully, 
in her rational moments, for the relief of death. Her 
father permitted her to remain in his house only because 
her physician would not allow her to be removed. 

“If she escapes insanity,” he said, “you must deal 


REFUGE 


361 


gently with her. You must have an attendant in the 
room with her constantly, for she might attempt suicide. 
I doubt if her child will live.” 

This was the last hope of the judge. He was gentle 
with her, in so far as he never saw her. His house was 
closed to the Vandemeres’. He informed Lou, when she 
called, that his daughter was sick, but he would permit 
j no one except the doctor and the two nurses to see her. 
The nature of her illness was kept a secret from every- 
one. 

Dora, pleading for death, would not have killed her- 
self. She did not know how such a deed would affect the 
future of her child’s soul. It had already become a liv- 
ing being to her. If she could have passed from life, 
taking her poor little one with her, she would have faced 
her own doom gratefully, for her child’s sake, but she 
could not kill it. She could not think clearly, she was so 
frightened, so desperately weak and sorrowful. In her 
delirium she was constantly struggling to save her little 
i one from the disaster or death that menaced him. He 
was in her mind a fair-haired boy, the image of the Rich- 
ard of her earliest childhood. Sometimes, while praying 
for death, she was subconsciously listening to the in- 
stincts of maternity, trying to be very peaceful and quiet 
for his sake. 

When the child was born she lay for days at a time 
holding him to her breast as often as the nurse would 
allow her, watching him with yearning, anxious eyes 
when she took him away. If the nurse wished her to 
sleep, it was necessary for her to place the baby on the 
pillow with her. As soon as she was out of danger and 


m 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


able to be up her father came to her again. He paid 
no attention to the child as the nurse went out with it. 
He stood before his daughter, looking sternly down upon 
her bowed head, and told her that as soon as she could 
be removed he would send her into the country, to re- 
cover. She might return when she was well again, if she 
wished to. “The child,” he said, “will be taken to an 
institution in the morning. I will see that it is adopted 
by some worthy person. No one knows of your sin, and 
it may be that you will escape its full penalty, in this 
world. As to your soul, I pray for God’s mercy 
upon it.” 

She did not cry out nor f aint away. She became very 
cold and still. When he was gone she aroused herself 
and, clasping her head, tried desperately to think. 
Where would he send the child? She knew that he 
would not tell her that. To-morrow they would take 
him away, her little one. It would be the end of all 
things forever. She looked from her window at the 
bleak, cold world outside. It was the last day of De- 
cember. A crowd of young people, bound for Broad- 
way, passed, blowing horns. The electric lights of the 
park were beginning to appear in the falling darkness. 
It had rained in the morning, and the increasing cold of 
the day had covered the bare branches of the trees with 
a coating of ice, that now gleamed faintly in the blue 
light. A thin crust of ice and snow was upon the ground. 
She looked cautiously about the room. An anxious, 
stealthy cunning gave a peculiar expression to her soft, 
gray eyes. The nurse had returned after her father had 
left, and was putting the baby to sleep. 


REFUGE 


363 


“I think,” she said, smiling at the nurse, “that I will 
take a look into my bureau drawers. I have not seen 
them for a long time.” 

Her father had taken care of the little fortune her 
mother had left her, giving her what she asked for. She 
would draw a hundred dollars at a time, and put it in 
the lower drawer, to use as she needed it. She now found 
fourteen dollars in the purse. She slipped it stealthily 
into the pocket of her wrapper. Taking some note 
paper and an envelope from a box, she leaned against 
the bureau and wrote hastily : 

“Dear Lou : 

“In my terror I come to you. Oh, Lou, I have a little 
child and they will take him away. I shall try to get 
him somewhere safely, but I may die in the street. Who- 
ever brings this note to you will tell you where he is. 
Go at once and get him. Don’t wait — hide him away 
from my father. If I live, I shall see you and get him 
again. I must write hurriedly, for the nurse might see 
me. Go at once.” 

She addressed the envelope to Lou and added this ap- 
peal: 

“Whoever finds this child, please care for it and take 
this note, unopened, to its address.” 

Enclosing the note, she slipped it also into her pocket. 

“I will not undress,” she said pleasantly ; “I’ll just lie 
down. It seems good to have my clothes on. I shall get 
up again soon. I am so tired of my bed.” 

Since Dora had been so much better a bed had been 


364 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


brought in for the nurse. The baby slept with its 
mother, behind the curtains of an alcove. He was asleep 
when Dora went to lie down. 

For four terrible hours she listened to the turning 
pages of a book the nurse was reading. At last, the 
light was turned low. She looked at her watch. It was 
ten o’clock. At eleven she rose quietly and threw a light 
shawl over her head, tying it under her chin. She did 
not dare to open her closet door. She would not make 
an unnecessary sound. She took the child up carefully, 
and wrapping it in a quilt, pinned her note to Lou se- 
curely, and passed through the curtains. She patiently 
stood by the door, turning the knob slowly and opening 
it with the utmost stealth. She stole down«the stairs, 
and quietly undoing the fastenings of the front door, 
stepped out and closed it. This done, her need for cau- 
tion was over. The steps and sidewalk were coated with 
ice, but she was unconscious of this, and she did not slip. 
She fled up the street to Third avenue and boarded a car 
going north. She was heedless of the curious glances of 
the conductor and the few passengers aboard. Her 
pale, anxious face, her strange costume, the baby in its 
quilt, was an astonishing sight, but while those who 
watched her felt that something should be done they did 
nothing. Following the plan that she had finally 
adopted, she left the car at Sixty-seventh street, and 
summoning all her strength, just managed to reach the 
door of the Foundling Asylum, half a block west. She 
looked wildly about her for the crib that used to be there, 
but could not see it. She must not drop her baby. She 
must live until it was safe inside. She rang the bell and, 


REFUGE 


365 


closing her eyes, leaned against the building, striving 
| desperately to retain her senses. She felt an arm about 
| her. The baby was gently lifted from her breast, and 
she sank into unconsciousness. 

When she came to herself she was sitting on a bench 
in the hall, a sister supporting her and another one bath- 
ing her face with cold water and rubbing her hands. A 
third sister was holding the child at arm’s length and 
laughing as he kicked and clutched for her cap, crowing 
and gurgling gleefully. 

“You see he is all right,” said the sister by her 
side. 

“He is a boy, isn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you named him yet ?” 

“Yes.” 

“I am glad of that. We like to have the true name 
for our babies.” 

“Have you — have you found the note?” 

“Yes, it is here.” 

“Will you send for her as soon as I am gone?” 

“Are you going away ?” 

Dora looked at her questioningly. 

“If you wish to leave the child with us,” said the sister 
gently, “you must place him in the crib. He then be- 
longs to us — that is the law. But this is often only a 
form, you know. If you wish to stay with us until you 
are well, and help us take care of your child, you may 
do so. When you are well, if you can support him, you 
may have him again.” 

Dora pressed her head upon the sister’s breast and 


366 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

cried. This was salvation to her. She knew if she went 
out she would die. 

Now that her child was safe, she realised that, dressed 
as she was, she could go nowhere. She wanted to live 
now. She loved this poor, little, happy son of hers, and 
she could not leave him. She was scarcely conscious of 
what followed, but she knew as she lay in her bed that 
her baby was beside her and she was content. 

9 Dora was awakened in the morning by her baby. He 
had wriggled close to her, and was dabbling in her face 
with one of his soft, little hands. When she opened her 
eyes, he kicked spasmodically, puckered his face, blinked 
and winked at her gleefully, and emitted strange coos 
and gurgles of delight. 

“Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “My little inno- 
cent.” She tried to draw him to her breast, but she 
could not lift her arm. Her eyes closed heavily. Too 
weak to make an effort, she lay for a long time in a tran- 
quil semi-consciousness, listening to her baby’s cooing 
summons and smiling faintly at his efforts to poke her 
eyes. She knew where she was. She had been in this 
room often before, coming to play with the children and 
bringing gifts for them and their mothers. It was a 
long, wide room, with very high ceilings and flooded with 
sunlight pouring through the high windows on both 
sides. There were two long rows of beds, like her own, 
and they were never empty. The place affected her now 
as it always had. The fact that she was an inmate and 
not a visitor could not alter her attitude, for she had 
never entered here with the compassion of a patron, but 
with a pure, impersonal and tender affection. Her fate 


REFUGE 


S67 


had brought her into a little closer relationship with 
these wan and helpless mothers. The mystery of their 
state was not quite so mysterious. She felt neither re- 
sentment nor a sense of degradation. Even her terror 
had passed. The thought of Richard filled her with a 
tender sorrow, which served to subdue her happiness in 
the child. As the image of her little one grew more dis- 
tinct, that of her lover grew more dim. The one was 
becoming merged in the other. 

There was the stir of early morning in the room. 
Children were being taken to the bath, and such of the 
mothers as could not go for their own, or wait upon 
themselves, were attended by the nurses. She heard the 
voices of the mothers and the children. She wished that 
she could talk to her child, for he was growing impatient 
at her long neglect. If she could only wash and dress 
him, and sing to him. She became conscious of a pleas- 
ant commotion near her. Some mother, evidently quite 
strong and well, was having a fine frolic with her child. 
She knew by the sounds that she was rolling it on the 
bed, and tossing it in the air, and burrowing her head 
into its stomach. She had a cheery, joyous voice, made 
musical by its quality of happiness and rich good-nature, 
touched with a strain of pathos, left by sorrow, past and 
forgotten. 

“So you won’t be weaned,” said Thekla. “You ras- 
cal. Well, what do you go and get teeth for, then? Do 
you think I’ll let you bite me? A great, big girl like 
you?” 

Dora opened her eyes, and saw that the mother was 
young, not more than seventeen at the most, perhaps not 


368 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

that. There were evidences of recent sickness and suf- 
fering about her form and face, but in spite of these she 
conveyed a strong impression of cheerful youth and 
strength to Dora. There was something exceedingly 
pleasant and wholesome in the expression of her up- 
turned, arching lips and clear blue eyes. Catching 
Dora’s glance, she put her child on the floor and came 
to her bed. 

“You seem to be neglected,” she said. “The nurses 
are so busy now. It will be half an hour or more before 
they can get to you. I’ll just look after you myself, if 
you don’t mind.” 

Dora tried to speak, but she was too weak. She began 
to cry feebly, not from sorrow, but in response to the 
good-will and pleasant sympathy offered her. 

“I’ll just fix the baby up first,” said Thekla. “I won’t 
take him away. Don’t you think it. I’ll bring a tub 
and some towels.” She hurried off and, returning, put 
the tub on a chair near the bed, where Dora could watch 
her. 

“My Lord, what a kicker,” she exclaimed. “You’re a 
boy, all right. That’s right, now, hit me again if you 
dare. Oh, I’ll fix you for that. Oh, ho, Mr. Man, I 
knew you were a boy. Now, look out.” 

She plunged him into the tub, and laughed in his face 
as she held him up to drip, and doused him again. He 
had never been bathed in this fashion before, but who 
could resist her? He sputtered and splashed, and took 
his soaping and scrubbing and drying with the most 
absurd contortions and exclamations of surprise and de- 
light. Dora watched the proceedings with anxious eyes 


REFUGE 


369 


and a fluttering of the heart, but it was an excitement 
that proved good for her. She could keep her eyes open 
now without thinking of her heavy lids, and a faint 
colour stole into her cheeks. Her body was warmer. 
No drug could have been so good a tonic. 

“I don’t think,” said Thekla, “I had better do any- 
thing for you. You seem pretty weak.” 

“Thank you,” murmured Dora. “You have done me 
good, I guess.” Her lips trembled as she added, “I 
guess I will get better now.” 

“Of course you will. You should have seen me when 
I came here.” 

A moment later Dora was asleep. She had succeeded 
in putting her arm about her baby. When she opened 
her eyes she was astonished to see the girl again bath- 
ing her boy by the bedside. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed, not noticing, in her excitement, 
how easily she could speak, “what makes you bathe 
him again?” 

“Well, you have had a sleep of it. Don’t you know 
that it’s morning again?” 

“Dear me, is that true?” 

“You look a lot better.” 

“Oh, I am.” 

When the baby was dressed Dora was again surprised 
to see the girl take it to her breast. 

“Pie likes that better than the bottle,” she said gaily. 
“I gave him all his meals yesterday. It was funny to 
see how my Katie took it. I could not wean her at all 
before, but she seems willing to put up with a spoon since 
her place has been taken.” 


370 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


She picked her own child from the floor as she spoke 
and put her on her knee. Katie watched her successor 
amiably, reaching up now and then to pat his head or to 
poke her own fist into the breast he was kneading, very 
much as if willing to assist him. 

“I am sorry now,” said Thekla, a little sadly, “that I 
must go. I would like to stay and see you get well.” 

“Are you going soon? I — I wish you were not.” 

“I am well now, and must go. They need my bed, you 
know, and, beside, I must find something to do. I must 
get to work at something right away.” 

A frightened expression leaped into her eyes. If she 
should fail or delay too long she would lose her Katie. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE . 

D URING the six months in which Lou had not 
seen Dora she had been exceedingly anxious 
on her account. For the first few days her 
only concern was for Dora’s health. No suspicion of 
the cause of her sickness, or of her mental anguish, came 
to her. Her mother sympathised with her anxiety, and 
shared it, to some extent, making a call on Mrs. Vande- 
mere in the hope of learning some of the satisfying de- 
tails. When she returned she told Lou that there was a 
mystery in the matter, somewhere. 

“I could not find out anything at all. Susan acted 
very strange, I thought. There is more back of all this 
than appears on the surface.” 

Lou knew that her mother was quick to suspect hidden 
possibilities in simple things, but, in spite of this knowl- 
edge, she felt an instant alarm. She thought of Dick, 
and wondered if there had been a serious misunderstand- 
ing between him and Dora. Then came the startling 
news of his departure. 

“I knew it !” exclaimed Mrs. Storrs. “You can’t de- 
ceive me. I could see well enough that the judge and 
Susan were estranged. Something terrible has hap- 
1 371 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


S72 

pened. I hope there is nothing disgraceful in it. 
Mercy ! what an awful thing a scandal about Dora 
would be.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Lou, in astonishment; 
“the idea of imagining such a thing !” 

“Well, my dear, I say it would be awful, but it is by 
no means impossible. Such things happen, and fre- 
quently. You will learn in time that I have good reason 
to watch over you and worry about you. What do you 
know of the wickedness of the world?” 

Lou did not heed her. She was frightened by the 
news of Dick’s going. He would not have left so sud- 
denly, while Dora was sick, if there had not been some 
distressing reason for it. What could the trouble be? 
She went again and again to the house, but was not able 
to see Dora. The butler informed her that she was a 
little better, or not quite so well, that he did not know 
the nature of the illness. She saw the judge, and was 
told by him that he would, on no account, allow Dora to 
be seen or communicated with. 

“She will probably recover,” he said, with a heavy, 
frigid politeness. “You need not be anxious on that ac- 
count. I would rather that no one sees her now. I will 
let you know when you may do so.” 

He was determined, indomitable. He did not wish to 
arouse suspicion, but he would not say the doctor recom- 
mended solitude, for he would not lie. No one should see 
Dora, however. They might wonder at her long seclu- 
sion, but if they saw her and talked with her they would 
know. He would do all that was honest to hide her 
shame from the world. 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 


373 


He loved his daughter, as such men love, in a cold, im- 
personal way. Her sin, in his estimation, was the dead- 
liest a woman can commit. His conception of morality 
was of the most conventional order. But two things 
were required of women — chastity and obedience. Men 
should be honest in the letter and the spirit. The respect 
of one’s fellows was the greatest of all treasures; up- 
rightness, the first of the virtues. He had little concep- 
tion of the value of tenderness or sympathy. He be- 
lieved, in fact, that such qualities were more an element 
of weakness than of strength. Could he have fashioned 
the world after his conceptions, it would have possessed a 
nature austere and forbidding. There are multitudes 
such as he, who, if the world were to be rid of its wretch- 
edness and evil, would have no place in it, for they could 
neither share in its delights nor add to its loveliness. 

It must be recorded to his credit that, during Dora’s 
long illness, he suffered intensely, and in his ultimate de- 
cision concerning her his sterner qualities were forced 
to concede something to his affections. He was not sure 
but that he was himself weak in what he did. Was it 
honest to preserve his household from scandal by subter- 
fuge and concealment? Was it just to divert from his 
daughter the full measure of the punishment her sin de- 
served? Should he not cast her from him, at whatever 
cost to his own feelings? 

When he had announced his purpose to send the child 
from her, to allow it to become lost by adoption, that she 
might live in quietness at home, he had followed all that 
was gentle and sympathetic in his nature. 

When he discovered her flight he was overcome with 


S74 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


horror and amazement. He could only suppose her to be 
insane. He could not believe her to be so lost to all sense 
of shame as to deliberately proclaim her motherhood. 
He would have thought it a virtue in her had she hated 
this living witness of her guilt, as he did. She had wan- 
dered in her delirium, and he must find her. It must be 
done with all possible swiftness and precaution. He did 
not report to the police, but employed a private agency. 
When he had put this force at work he waited with a 
stern repression of his anxiety for the result. All of 
New Year’s Day he sat alone in his darkened library, his 
head bent, his soul lost in tragic brooding. Would they 
find her dead? Would all the world know? He vaguely 
conceived a picture of her demented wanderings through 
the night. The thought of her suffering distressed him, 
but the possibility of her death was not so terrible as was 
the thought of the shame that would attend it. 

The afternoon passed and he received no news. At 
eight o’clock the butler entered and told him, hesitat- 
ingly, that Miss Lou wished to see him. The judge 
frowned at this message. 

“I told her, sir, that you would see no one, but she 
would not go.” 

“I will not see her,” said the judge, slowly. 

As the butler turned, Lou passed him, and walking 
quickly into the room, her cheeks flushed, her eyes shin- 
ing with excitement, said, in a voice very determined in 
spite of its trembling: 

“I must see Dora.” 

Her whole body was quivering, but she stood bravely 
before him, looking earnestly into his eyes. 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 375 

He dismissed the butler with a look, and motioned Lou 
to a chair. 

“Dora is not here,” he said, solemnly, the anxiety and 
distress he had so long subdued creeping into his hag- 
gard face, and affecting his voice, in spite of himself. 

“Where is she? Oh, won’t you tell me where she is? 
Is she in trouble? Don’t you know how much we are to 
each other? It has been six months since I have seen 
her, and she so sick ” 

The butler entered again, more assured this time, for 
he knew his mission was important, and handed a card 
to the judge, who looked at it and hastily left the room. 

He returned in a few moments, betraying in his face 
and manner an unusual degree of agitation. He closed 
the door, and looking questioningly at Lou, as if to as- 
sure himself of her trustworthiness, said : 

“I wish to confide in you. I want you to help me. I 
believe I can rely on you, for Dora’s sake.” 

“Oh — what is it?” 

“She left the house some time in the night, wearing 
only her wrapper. She was delirious. A detective has 
just reported to me that such a girl was taken into the 
Foundling Asylum about midnight, and is there now, 
but they do not know her name. I would like you to 
drive with me there at once.” 

He must discover if this girl was Dora, and if so 
bring her away. But they would know him, and he did 
not like to appear in the matter, if he could avoid it. He 
would not tell Lou of the child, for she could do no worse 
than discover it for herself, and it might be that some 
fortunate event had already removed it from the problem. 


376 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


Lou, shocked by this news of Dora’s situation, and yet 
joyful in the prospect of seeing her again, accompanied 
the judge from the house, and as the carriage drove up 
entered it with him. Nothing was said during the rapid 
drive up Lexington avenue until they turned the comer 
at Sixty-eighth street. 

t “If you will go in, I will wait in the carriage,” he said. 
“Bring her back with you, if she is there. Do not let 
them know who she is. If there is any trouble about it, 
I will, of course, go myself.” 

She scarcely listened to what he said, but as soon as 
the carriage stopped ran swiftly to the door and was 
admitted. 

“I wish to see the inmates,” she said, with what com- 
posure she could. “We have lost some one — very dear 
to us — we think she is here — may I see?” 

The sister led her at once to the long chamber lined 
with beds. It was not yet nine o’clock, and some of the 
lights were burning. 

“When did she come?” 

“Last night. She wore a wrapper. She is a girl — 
nineteen. She ” 

“I know. If she is the one you must not wake her. 
She was in a terrible state, but this sleep may save her. 
Here is the bed.” 

Lou caught the sister’s arm and gripped it convul- 
sively. She saw Dora, her pale, wasted face death- 
like in its sleep, her arm holding a little child to her 
breast. 

“The baby,” she whispered. “Is it hers? Oh, Dora 
- — oh, my poor darling.” 


m 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 

The sister hurriedly led her away. 

“You must not waken her on any account,” she said. 
“In the morning you may see her, if you wish. But 
even then you must be careful.” 

“When can we take her away?” 

“That will be better told in the morning.” 

Bewildered, heartbroken, Lou stumbled out to the 
carriage and fell back in her seat, sobbing convulsively. 
It was some moments before she could tell the judge 
what the nurse had said. 

“Are you sure she was Dora?” 

“Yes, yes. The child — is it hers?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where is Dick?” 

The judge did not answer. 

“Where is Dick?” 

“Stop !” he said, hoarsely, almost suffocated with rage. 
“I will not hear of him.” 

An oath burst from his lips, more frightful in its 
blasphemy, since it was something of a prayer. 

Lou wept in silence, and the judge controlled his pas- 
sion with an effort. As they were nearing his home he 
said slowly : 

“I wish you would look after Dora, and as soon as 
she can be removed bring her home. The — the child 
may be left where it is.” 

Lou looked at him quickly. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, and before he could 
answer, a realisation of his attitude and of Dora’s suffer- 
ings came to her. 

“How have you treated Dora these six months?” she 


378 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

asked, a savage note in her usually soft voice. “Tell 
me that. Do you think she will leave her baby there? 
Is that why she ran away from you? What were you 
threatening to do?” 

He looked at her in astonishment. What strange 
words were these? He was sorry he had trusted her. 
He became cold and impassive, remaining silent and un- 
easy in her presence. She said nothing more, but she 
understood the long, tragic story of Dora’s sufferings, 
and she knew what she would do. 

“I will have you taken home,” said the judge, as he 
got out, “if you will remain in the carriage.” 

“I would rather walk.” 

He gave her his hand, and closed the door behind her. 

“I will not trouble you any further in this matter. I 
hope you will forget what you have seen.” 

“I shall see Dora in the morning,” she said quietly, 
and left him. 

When she reached home she went at once to her room. 
She could not talk with any one. It seemed that she 
could not live through a night of waiting. If she could 
only go now and sob her soul out in Dora’s arms. She 
did not reason over the matter, but tossed in her bed, op- 
pressed with a distressing and tender pity. The vision 
of Dora and her child, as she had seen them in their sleep, 
was constantly before her. Presently, however, she was 
able to more quietly consider her course. 

“She has suffered enough,” she thought, “without 
having my grief to endure. I will go to her in the morn- 
ing and comfort her. I will learn what she wishes and 
help her. I will find some happiness that she can hope 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 


379 


for. I will not leave her. I will take her away, and we 
will live in a cheery home of our own making.” 

With such thoughts and plans running through her 
mind, she fell asleep, to dream of the home they had 
made, a comfortable little house it was, somewhere in the 
country, with a sunny garden and a wide, green yard 
around it, with open fields and cool, dim woods near by. 

Early in the morning Judge Preston drove alone to 
the asylum and was taken to Dora. At the sound of 
his voice, she turned from Thekla, who was nursing her 
baby, and looked up at him with startled eyes. 

Thekla went at once to her own bed, taking the chil- 
dren, and the judge, sitting in her seat, looked intently 
at Dora. 

“Why did you do this?” 

“Because — I was afraid.” 

“Of what?” 

“You said you would take him away.” 

“Do you think you can keep — it? Do — do you 
want to?” 

They looked at each x>ther in equal wonder. He was 
indignant in his amazement ; she was alarmed. 

In the silence that followed, a singular courage, born 
of love and fed by a kind of feverish despair, possessed 
her. 

“I cannot leave him,” she said. “He is mine — my 
own. He shall know who his mother is. He shall have 
all I can give to him. I love him — and he is all I have 
left of — Richard.” 

The judge started, as if a blow had been dealt him. 
His face became livid, his eyes blazed in angry horror. 


380 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Do you mean that you still love him?” 

Dora closed her eyes ; she could say no more. She 
could not defend herself. Her father was also silenced, 
but by other emotions. Was it possible she was so lost 
in her depravity as to still love this scoundrel? Had she 
no conception of her crime, no intention of undoing her 
error, of redeeming her state, if possible? Did she 
think she could acknowledge this child and be tolerated 
by respectable people? What did she propose to do — 
drag herself and him into permanent disgrace? He 
knew that such crimes as hers were committed by the 
daughters of good families, but the evidence was con- 
cealed. He had so far abused his own conscience as to 
be willing to help her hide her fault, as others did, and 
she refused. Was this insanity, or depravity, or head- 
strong, stubborn folly ? While he was silently watching 
her, uncertain what to do, Lou passed him, and stooping, 
kissed Dora’s lips. 

“Oh, oh, Lou ” 

She put her arms about her neck, and drew her down 
to her, crying pitifully. 

As the judge watched them a thought of his wife, 
long dead, came to him. She had been a gentle, unob- 
trusive little woman, entering and leaving his life with- 
out moving him profoundly in any way. In his youth 
he had been drawn to her by her tender beauty and her 
own affectionate nature. He had found her a good wife, 
because she had not disturbed him. He had missed her 
for a time, as he would have missed any attentive element 
in his surroundings. His days, however, had been 
wholly occupied by his ambition. He was a judge in 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 


381 


fact and in spirit, and his occupation absorbed him. 
Now, however, the memory of his wife returned. He 
saw her in Lou’s place, holding Dora in her arms, and 
weeping over her. This picture brought a strange mist 
tQ his eyes, but in a moment the softening reverie had 
passed. He felt only a bitter gratitude that she had 
escaped the sorrow and shame their child had brought 
to him. 

He realised that he could do nothing here now. Be- 
fore leaving he spoke to one of the nurses, handing her 
a card. 

“I haye written my telephone number on this,” he said. 
“If any change occurs in the young woman’s condition 
I wish you would notify me at once. I will have her re- 
moved as soon as she is able.” 

He buttoned his coat about him, walked heavily out to 
his carriage and was driven home. 

He spent the day brooding over this unaccountable 
tragedy that had befallen him. 

In the afternoon he drove again to the asylum. He 
would reason with Dora. She was blinded by her suffer- 
ing, and could not see clearly for herself. He would 
make her state and her duty so plain that she could not 
fail to see. He found her asleep and turned away, 
shocked anew at the sight of the child by her side. He 
must talk with her soon. He must have an end of this 
horror. 

In the evening he called up the asylum, and standing 
stiffly by the telephone, asked in a voice of formal re- 
serve about “the young woman he had called to see.” 
He was told that she was dozing most of the time; that 


382 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

she was very weak and feverish, and should not be dis- 
turbed now. 

When Lou had left she also had given her address to 
the nurse. 

“If there is any danger, at any time,” she said, “please 
send for me. Do you think there is any?” 

“Of course, there is danger. She may never be en- 
tirely conscious again, and she may begin to recover at 
once. It all depends on her reserve of strength.” 

The next morning the judge called and found Dora 
awake, and just able to move her hands and head slightly. 
She was so pale and thin, her lips so drawn and nerve- 
less, that he could not talk with her. He felt instinct- 
ively th,at a word might end the life hanging by so frail 
a thread. He looked at her solemnly, unconsciously tor- 
turing her by the unchanging purpose in his eyes. She 
tried to escape; she wished that she could throw herself 
into his arms, and again that she might run from him, 
for she loved and feared this being who had brought her 
into life from a still, sweet source, and who had dom- 
inated her from the time of her conception. She closed 
her eyes, but she felt his presence, and all that he was 
waiting to say and do. She began to cry, and was in- 
stantly engulfed in delirium. He arose in alarm and 
called a nurse. 

“What is it?” he asked. “Is she so sick as that?” 

“You had better leave her now,” said the nurse. “She 
ought to be quiet.” 

As the judge left Lou entered, and finding Dora de- 
lirious, was heartbroken and angry. 

“You must not let him see her,” she said. 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 383 

“I see that,” answered the nurse, gravely. “I did not 
know.” 

Lou sat by the bedside, watching until the doctor came 
and brought quiet to the sufferer. 

“What do you think?” she asked anxiously. 

“I can’t tell now,” he replied. “She is so weak.” 

All that day Lou remained by her side. Once Dora 
opened her eyes and seemed to realise vaguely that she 
was there, but she was never fully conscious. Lou, anx- 
ious as she was, looked about her thoughtfully, wonder- 
ing, more and more, at the mystery of all this pathetic 
misery. It was a place to wonder in. In this one room 
were twenty outcast mothers and their children. Most 
of them were young. It would be hard to find faces 
more expressive of that which is gentle and tender in 
humanity. They are here because they have loved their 
children too dearly to dispose of them in any other way. 
Most of them would have made good wives and mothers, 
but here they lie through days and nights of patient 
suffering alone. 

A girl like Lou could not sit here through the hours 
without feeling the tenderness and pathos of the place. 
She could not analyse the spectacle nor see its signifi- 
cance, but she could feel its sorrow. When she went 
home in the evening her misery, so intense and personal, 
almost suffocated her. 

A little after midnight, as she was sitting by her win- 
dow, too anxious to sleep, the door-bell rang. She hur- 
ried down, frightened by the certainty of its import. It 
was a message from the asylum. She stood for a mo- 
ment in the hall, under the light, staring at the words : 


S84 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“The young woman is dying.” 

Hearing her mother coming from her room in answer 
to the bell, she hastily tore up the message and put it in 
her pocket. 

“What is it?” said Mrs. Storrs. “What made you 
come down?” 

“Mamma,” said Lou, “Dora is dying. The judge 
has sent for me. I must go.” 

She hurried to her room, followed by her mother, who, 
now greatly excited, was declaring that she must go with 
her. 

“Send out for a cab for me,” said Lou. When it 
came she went to it alone, insisting upon this in spite of 
her mother’s protests. 

At the same hour the judge was summoned by tele- 
phone. The metallic sound which the telephone gives to 
a voice at times grated upon him now. He hung up 
the receiver, which seemed to click loud in the silent 
house, and, in the husky tones of age, ordered a 
carriage. 

With solemn tread he went for his wraps, the informa- 
tion he had received still sounding in his ears. When 
he was ready he stood in the darkened hall, rubbing his 
chin and staring at the floor. The ordinary delay irri- 
tated him. 

“Tell Patrick to hurry,” he said. 

All the way up Lexington avenue the rhythmic play 
of the horse’s hoofs sounded solemnly in his ears. 
Through the windows of the carriage he could see the 
silent street, the long line of fluttering gas lamps stretch- 
ing on either hand. The cold, the darkness, were the fit 


THE APPEAL OF LOVE 385 

attendants of his mood. Whither was his daughter 
f aring ? 

The carriage turned into Sixty-seventh street and 
stopped at the entrance. A few windows were still 
gleaming vaguely in the tall walls of the asylum. He 
toiled heavily up the stairs, and ringing, was admitted 
by a sister, who spoke in whispers. As he made his way 
to the ward his own steps seemed to sound unnaturally 
loud. A tensity of feeling which he refused to recognise 
made all things keen. 

At the bedside the significance of the message was 
plainly written upon the face of his daughter. That 
| ruddy tenderness which he had known for years past had 
given place to a waxen pallor. Not even his previous 
visits had prepared him for this silent, impassive weak- 
ness. 

“Is she sleeping?” he asked mechanically. 

The watching sister shook her head. 

“She is unconscious,” she replied, whispering. 

He looked again, and now the significance of suffering 
came home — the frailty of life — the glimmering of a 
light in eternal darkness, the little hour of breathing in 
ages and ages of time. He felt the drag of the eternal, 
the creeping silence of his own years. His hardness, his 
set rules of conduct, his rigour and honour — how quieted 
they were here. 

Looking at this tender face, he felt something of that 
long last touch of emotion which age puts by — the feel- 
ing of the inevitable, which youth yearns over and love 
weeps beside. He folded his hands wearily, and finally 
sat down, hoping that she would wake again. 


386 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


While he was sitting there Lou passed him and peered 
anxiously at the sleeper. She, too, sat down in silence. 
The judge made no sign of recognition. He was lost 
in a mood as sombre as the night itself. 

There is a period in the night when the world seems 
to turn in its dreams. The restless wake ; the watchers 
frighten again ; those who are at death’s door sometimes 
return. While they were sitting in the long chamber, 
Dora opened her eyes. She looked clearly now, for 
reason had returned. Her soul had something to say. 
Lou dropped to her knees by the bed. 

Dora trembled as if she were about to move, but too 
little strength was left her. She lifted one hand feebly, 
and dropped it again. 

“Oh, Lou,” she whispered, “don’t let them give him 
away.” 

“No,” murmured Lou. “Never fear.” 

Dora’s eyes closed. Her little strength had now been 
utterly exhausted. She seemed to withdraw perceptibly 
and was still. 

“She is dead,” groaned the judge. “She is dead.” 

The doctor watched her attentively for a while, then 
touching the judge on the shoulder and motioning to Lou 
he led the way from the room. In the hall he said 
briefly : 

“She is asleep, and she may recover. You,” he con- 
tinued, looking at the judge, “had better stay away. 
You are not good for her. The young lady should be 
here when she wakes up and stay with her as much as she 
can. She will sleep most of the time, if nothing disturbs 
her in the waking intervals, until convalescence begins.” 


THE APPEAL OP LOVE 


387 


Lou listened breathlessly, unconsciously clutching at 
her breast. The judge left them, and the doctor, turn- 
ing to Lou, said pleasantly : 

“You don’t mind sitting up for the night?” 

“You think she will get well?” 

“Yes. She loves her child and she will live.” 


CHAPTER XXVin. 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING. 

F OR three days Dora slept almost constantly. It 
so happened that whenever she opened her eyes 
she saw Lou, with her little one, close beside her, 
in a rocking-chair, made comfortable with quilts and 
cushions. After the first night Lou went home to sleep, 
but she awoke early and hurried to the asylum. She 
wished that she need not leave Dora for a moment, and 
begrudged those hours when she must sleep. Her first 
question of the nurse was always: “Did she waken in 
the night ?” But there was another impulse urging this 
early morning haste. Learning that Dora had slept and 
was still asleep, she lost whatever of anxiety she felt, and, 
moving silently through the ward, bent over the cradle 
where Dora’s baby slept. Sometimes his eyes were open 
and she fancied that he was expecting her, for when she 
appeared he began to reach out with uncertain arms, 
and to make eager sounds, twisting his lips and plump 
little body anxiously. Lou would have been surprised 
could she have looked upon herself bending over this 
cradle. Her countenance was bright with pleasure in 
his manifest affection. What did he know of the pro- 
prieties, the tragedies, the pitiful longings of the world? 
388 


389 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING 

Keep him free from the stomach-ache, and he will make 
joyous faces at you, defying your seriousness with eyes 
of limpid innocence. Shake your finger at him and he 
will crow at you. When he is older you may, with per- 
sistence, convince him that he has no right here, but now 
he will not understand. He is not yet a member of so- 
ciety, but a citizen of life, and if the laws are unfriendly 
he may change the laws. This smiling face above him 
now means that he will be free of his crib, bathed, played 
with, fed and carried about, and it makes him glad. 

Lou, usually of a restless mind, scarcely thought at all 
these days. She dared not. As she walked in the sun- 
light, through grass and flowers, she could see from the 
corner of her eye the edge of an abyss. She was afraid 
to look — it was so close. 

This joyous baby did not wish to think, and Dora only 
woke at long intervals to a moment’s pleasing sense of 
her drowsiness. 

Lou avoided conversation with her mother, going at 
once to her own room on a plea of weariness. Ed waited 
for her near the asylum in the evening, and walked with 
her to the corner of the Square, but he seemed to realise 
her mood and was silent. She felt grateful to him for 
this. She had told him about Dora and the child, be- 
cause she had seen no way of avoiding it. So great a 
secret could not be kept from him. She could not clearly 
remember what she had said, but as she sat by Dora’s 
bedside she often reviewed the scene with him. She felt 
again the sickening distress during the hurried recital, 
the anxious moment of silence when she was through. 
During that moment she believed that with his first word 


390 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


she would hate him and forever. He did not speak, but 
taking her hand held it close, leading her on in silence. 

She was hardly conscious of her growing dependence 
on him these days. When she thought of their relations 
at all, it was only to assure herself that marriage had 
become impossible. She tried not to think of this, for 
with the thought came an oppressing sense of Dora and 
the fate love had brought her. Men in the abstract had 
become repulsive to her. In the light of a man, Adams 
was not to be endured. As an embodiment of strength 
and sympathy, she could take comfort in him. During 
the first of Dora’s convalescence he was her stay. She 
would have felt desolate on leaving the asylum had he 
not been waiting for her. She could talk to him or be 
silent, as she chose. He was a good companion, sincere, 
hopeful, full of health, and so truly sympathetic that 
when he spoke she was not so conscious of the words as 
of the pleasant voice that soothed and cheered her. 

There came a time, however, when she was obliged to 
think of the future and to speak of it definitely. On the 
way home one evening she said to him : 

“When Dora can be removed, we will find a place in 
the country where we can live together.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “we will do that.” 

She looked up quickly, met his smiling glance, and 
looked away, confused. She knew that she should meet 
his inference. Why could she not say: “I cannot 
marry you. That is settled, Ed?” It may have been 
because she was not quite sincere in repeating this state- 
ment over and over to herself. When she spoke to him 
again, she said : 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING 391 

“We will not be far away, and you will see me some- 
times ?” 

His eyes sought hers, and drew her wandering glance 
to him, as he replied : 

“Always.” 

What could she do with him ? 

“I know a little place on the Orange hills,” he said. 
“It is beautiful there. From the edge of a bluff, about 
half a mile from the house, you can overlook the world 
between you and the ocean. The Hudson River is a rib- 
bon. From there New York is a city purely of one’s 
own imagination. The house and about eight acres of 
meadow are part of an old farm. A group of low 
buildings at the other end of our lane form the establish- 
ment of an amiable farmer and his wife. They would 
be our landlords and only neighbours. There is a fine 
woods surrounding our meadow land. Will you come 
and see?” 

“It sounds lovely!” 

“To-morrow ?” 

“I will talk with Dora.” 

All that evening she sat in her room by the window, 
looking absently over the deserted Square, its wintry 
aspect made more cold and bleak by electric light. Her 
mood was at once melancholy and peaceful. It was not 
alone upon the Square, stripped of its verdure, bare, 
odourless, voiceless, that she looked, but upon life from 
which also the spring had gone. She was grateful for 
the silence of the Square. The old impulses could no 
longer respond to its sounds. Romantic reveries led her 
to the bedside of Dora. From her childhood she had 


39 & 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


longed to be free. There was joy in the world, but it 
was only for the unrestrained. To dream now of 
thoughtless liberty was to awaken to the scene of Thek- 
la’s arrest. It was pitiful. She realised that she was 
viewing now the fragments of her illusions. And yet 
Ed was near. She felt the comfort of his presence in 
the world. Perhaps some day she would marry him, if 
all went well, and she had a vague perception of the fact 
that while the springs of mature years are not the myth- 
ical springs of youth they have a glory of their own. 

It was difficult for her to speak to Dora of their plans. 
These days at the asylum, during which Dora’s strength 
returned, were neither sad nor dull. When Dora could 
sit, propped up in her bed with pillows, when she could 
remain most of the day awake, she found a constant 
pleasure in Lou, the little one, her nurse and her neigh- 
bours of the ward. At first, both Lou and Dora had 
purposely endeavoured to forget all that was tragic in 
the place and the events that had brought them there. 
But so great was the affection and so perfect the sym- 
pathy between them that effort soon became unnecessary. 
It would have been more difficult to keep a pleasant spirit 
had the child been peevish. But he was not. To have 
been melancholy in his presence they must have ignored 
him. Busy with his affairs, glad because of life and 
returning health where death had stood so near, they 
seldom had a moment for the broodings of sorrow. And 
affection such as theirs — limitless, tender and unques- 
tioning — is a disinfectant of the soul, like the sunlight, 
dispensing life and health. 

“Dora,” said Lou, a few days after her talk with Ed, 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING 393 

“where shall we live? Is there any place you would like 
in particular?” 

“Of course,” said Dora, simply, “my father will let 
me have what money I need — for it is mine, you know. 
I would like to live in the country, wouldn’t you ?” 

“Yes, with a woods near by.” 

“Yes. It is so quiet and far-away in the woods.” 

“Is there any particular place?” 

“No. I wmuld like to have it somewhere near. But 
the real country, where very few people are, and simple 
people. Do you think we could find such a place near 
by? I would feel homesick if we really went too far.” 

“I think I know a place.” 

“Oh, do you?” 

“It is on the Orange hills. A house in a meadow, near 
a woods. We would have one family, a farmer and his 
wife, for neighbours. From the edge of our bluff we 
can see New York and the ocean, far away.” 

“Oh,” sighed Dora, “let us go there.” 

“Do you remember ” Lou began softly, but she 

was interrupted by Dora, whose lips trembled as she said: 

“Don’t — not yet, Lou dear.” After a moment she 
added, “I don’t want to forget. I want to remember it 
all — everything, and without any pain. But it hurts me 
now.” 

“It is what we have wanted — to live together. We 
will be happy, Dora.” 

“You are so good to me.” 

In the morning Lou met Adams not far from her cor- 
ner. She went to him eagerly, unconscious of the sud- 
den lightness of her feet. 


394 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“I talked with Dora,” she said, smiling up at him, 
“and I think she will like your place.” 

“All right,” he answered cheerily. “Shall we go and 
look at it now ?” 

She stood still for a moment, smiling, looking frankly 
up at him, until her eyes filled unexpectedly. Hand in 
hand, as lovers may do freely only in country lanes or 
on the streets of New York, they walked leisurely and in 
silence to the ferry. 

She walked closer to him than was necessary, but un- 
consciously. She stood near him, looking over his arm, 
as he bought the tickets. Close together they leaned on 
the rail of the ferry. The light of a day of freedom 
was in their faces. They looked at the water, the gulls, 
the criss-crossing boats, the long coast line of New Jer- 
sey. There were the Orange hills, enveloped in mist. 
They looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. There 
are rare moments when we may be happy without ex- 
pectation, happy and silent and unconscious. It might 
have been a dream boat on which they were drifting. 

They looked from the car window at the fields, the 
farms and country places, the winding roads. There 
was a promise of spring in the air. Lou pointed to a 
clump of willows near a station and Ed, seeing the green 
twigs, nodded and smiled at her discovery. 

At East Orange they found a low, open surrey among 
the public vehicles by the platform. 

“That looks comfortable,” -said Adams, cautiously, 
looking quickly away. 

“I know,” answered Lou, softly, “but I hate to wake 
the poor old horse.” 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING 395 

In spite of these precautions the driver found them 
out. 

“Want a rig?” he asked, brisHy, motioning with his 
whip. 

There was nothing left for them but to follow meekly 
and get in. In their present mood this subtle coercion 
was, in itself, a delight. They were glad the surrey was 
old and shabby. They liked the alert importance of the 
chubby driver, the tilt of his ruffled high hat. They 
asked him to let the horse walk, for he was lame. They 
left the village and moved slowly along a country road. 

There were moments during the long drive when Lou 
realised that there might be possibilities in her present 
mood. At such times she could not look frankly at 
Adams. She was confused. But these were fleeting mo- 
ments. She was happy, let come what would. 

“Now, Ed,” she said, “don’t tell me.” 

He promised solemnly. Once they approached a 
group of farm buildings, and not far away was another 
house. She studied the landscape, and looked covertly at 
Ed. He was staring vacantly before him. 

“You needn’t look like an idiot,” she said. “I know 
that’s not the place, for there are no woods.” 

“That’s what a man gets,” he murmured, “for keep- 
ing faith.” 

This folly was pleasant, like the rickety surrey, the 
slow pace, the driver with his ruffled hat. 

“Ed,” she exclaimed, “stop the horse. That is the 
spring.” 

He saw a busK laden with buds, and jumping out, cut 
a handful of twigs with his jackknife and brought them 


396 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


to her. And these are the things of youth that age re- 
members. She looked into his eyes and smiled. A mo- 
ment later her hands, arranging the twigs, began to 
tremble. His eyes had plainly spoken, “This is the 
bride’s bouquet.” 

She laid it gently in her lap and closed her eyes. She 
would not think — she was happy, and she would not 
think. 

Adams, in silence, pondered over this mystery. How 
sweetly she followed him so long as he did not make 
clear the way. Was this love or hypnotism? He could 
not speak freely to this girl beside him, and yet his 
thoughts were good. “Innocence,” he mused, “is the 
daughter of knowledge. Modesty a pretence. To re- 
main innocent we must understand as we go.” But how 
could Lou be expected to understand? Mrs. Storrs had 
never seen for herself the divine image of life, and could 
speak to her daughter only of its masks and draperies. 

This is the age of Reticence, a transitory age between 
that of Ribaldry and Reverence. In the age of Ribaldry 
a proper bride went simpering and jesting to the nuptial 
bed. Lou, a daughter of Reticence, could do no better 
than ignore it. Its significance, its joy, its tenderness 
and beauty had been withheld from her. All this will 
be the common heritage of children when the age of 
Reverence begins. 

Adams knew that both Lou and Dora needed him, and 
that to do his part he must preserve his silence and lead 
his loved one in a veil. 

In the midst of these earnest meditations he heard Lou 
sigh, and saw her nestle closer to her corner of the seat. 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING 397 

The horse was scarcely moving, his head drooping to his 
knees. The driver was dozing lightly, and Lou also was 
asleep. 

They came to a row of maples, and the half-uncon- 
scious horse, finding the shade grateful, took a few lag- 
ging steps and stopped. Ed smiled at this * gentle 
guidance of the hand of Fate. 

“Get up there,” called the driver, suddenly awake. 

“That’s all right,” said Adams, “here we are.” 

Lou opened her eyes sleepily, and then sitting up: 

“Are we there?” She looked about her, and in grati- 
tude at him. He questioned her, and she answered with- 
out words. It was the place for them. 

Just back of the maples was a low house, with a steep 
roof, enormous dormer windows and a wide porch. 
There was a gravel walk, bordered with flower-beds, cov- 
ered with straw. 

“Crocuses, tulips, narcissus,” she said, pointing. 

“Where?” 

“Under the straw.” 

“Good. Now, you wait here and I’ll bring the key.” 

He beckoned to the driver and walked briskly down a 
lane toward the group of buildings he had described. 
These were also as she had fancied them to be. The 
bam, the barnyard, enclosed by corn-cribs, a granary, 
smoke-house and shed. The farm-house was like her 
own. Her own ! She felt a shock of rapture and craned 
her neck, impatient for the key. 

“Oh,” she said, when he returned, “we must bring 
Dora here at once. Don’t you think she could?” 

“The sooner the better, Lou — to-morrow.” 


398 


THE UNWRITTEN LAW 


“Of course, we must furnish it first.” 

‘‘It’s furnished.” 

“Ed!” 

“I mean it’s ready to live in. I l&ft the finishing for 
you.” 

She could not speak, but she could look at him. As 
he was bending to insert the key, she put her hand upon 
his shoulder, saying, “Ed, will you always love Dora, 
too?” 

“Yes, Lou, I will.” 

This was the betrothal. The wedding feast was bread 
and milk, pot-cheese and apple pie with cream, served on 
the farmer’s porch. 

Lou spent two hours rummaging through her house. 

“How did you do it so completely, Ed? It is all ready 
to step into.” 

“It was the farmer’s wife.” 

“If Dora were only here! I don’t want to go back 
at all.” 

“We can stay and go for Dora in the morning.” 

“They will wonder where I am.” 

She looked at him in great uncertainty. 

“We can write,” he said, pleasantly, and walked out 
like one who has a chore to do. 

She took the nearest chair and tried to think. What 
was happening? And now, for the first time, the prog- 
ress of the day seemed a little strange. She walked to 
the window and saw Adams drive past in a buckboard 
with one of the farmer’s horses. He turned out of the 
lane and drove rapidly toward East Orange. A little 
exclamation escaped her. There was a warm light in her 


r A WOOING AND A WEDDING 399 

eyes, an amused smile upon her lips as she saw him pass 
beyond a hill far down the road. 

At four o’clock there was an arrival at the gate, and 
looking through the blinds she saw that the clergyman 
remained in the buckboard, and that Ed, approaching, 
seemed disturbed. She hurried to the door, opened it, 
and stepping out composedly, met him on the step. 

“Let’s have it under the trees,” she said. 

The clergyman was in a hurry, and jumping from the 
buckboard, book in hand, thumbed the leaves as he came 
through the gate. 

“Now, here we are,” he said, looking over his spec- 
tacles and placing Lou and Adams side by side before 
him. 

Lou, looking at the ground, could see the green of 
young blades appearing through dead grass at her feet. 
The branches overhead were covered with maple buds and 
formed a canopy of dainty Japanese effects. 

She smiled at the solemn clergyman peering at her 
over his glasses, and murmured almost inaudible “I 
wills.” She did not look at Ed, but returned the pressure 
of his hand convulsively, and then her heart stood still. 

The clergyman jerked his watch from his pocket and 
exclaimed : 

“I have just thirty minutes in which to meet that 
train.” 

“We will do it,” said Adams. Turning to Lou he 
seized her hand and shook it. “I promised to get him 
back,” he explained. “Good-bye.” 

He ran laughing to the buckboard, the anxious clergy- 
man in his wake. He turned an absurdly joyous face 


400 THE UNWRITTEN LAW 

toward Lou, waved his hand and was gone, leaving a 
trail of dust. 

Lou leaned upon the gate, swaying with it idly, watch- 
ing him until he passed from view. She walked mechan- 
ically into the house, into the sitting-room, and stood 
looking at the floor. 

“This,” she murmured, “is the most amazing thing.” 

She moved uneasily through the house, gazed curiously 
at herself in the mirrors, and finally drew a chair to one 
of the front windows. 

She cast demure, unconscious glances from the win- 
dow down the road. This man whom she had been 
critically examining for so long, rebelling against, quib- 
bling over, had suddenly become big in her vision. He 
was to be proud of, to have faith in, to be tender with. 
She remembered those singular, earnest questions she had 
resented when he first came back to her. She smiled and 
became grave again. Her lips moved slightly. It was 
her first real prayer in many years. 

“This man’s love is a blessing,” she said aloud. 

She leaned upon the sill, gazing pensively down the 
road until nightfall. She heard Ed at a distance and 
went to meet him at the gate. 

* * * * * * * 

Soon after his marriage Adams became engrossed 
again in a personal career. He was sometimes thought 
to be peculiar. 

He would have nothing to do with a case that might 
require him to attack another’s character. It was his 
pleasure to defend. He became an expert in compli- 
cated cases of impersonal aspect, and he took them for 


A WOOING AND A WEDDING 401 

his fees. He had in him some of that metal which, since 
the days of the prophets, has annoyed the world, but 
he chose to weld it into the figure of a comfortable and 
successful man. 

Some time after Richard’s departure for Europe Mr. 
and Mrs. Vandemere told their more intimate friends that 
he was married. 

By degrees New York came to understand that the 
young Mrs. Vandemere was the clever and beautiful 
daughter of an obscure but respectable German family, 
and when, some years later, Richard brought her home, 
she received and left cards and moved among the mur- 
muring throngs at teas and functions. 

As this is written, Thekla is not quite eighteen. You 
may find her in the Square, in your own kitchen, in a 
music hall — perhaps on Blackwell’s Island for her second 
or her third offence. 

Perhaps it is through the miseries that befall her that 
we may discover the shortcomings of the society we are 
shaping. 


THE END. 




The President 

A NOVEL 

BY ALFRED HENRY LEWIS 

Author of “ The Boss.” 


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THE SUCCESS OF THE YEAR 

CAP’N ERI 

By* Joseph C. Lincoln 

Fifth American edition 

Published also in England Canada and Australia 

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